Love, Bright and Dark
by skaia7
Summary: COMPLETED! FINALLY, YAY! Companion to Fair, Strong and Cold by Elethill. Faramir returns to Emyn Arnen after a month long separation, but he is grievously ill. Will Eowyn lose him just when she realizes how much she truly loves him?
1. Chapter 1

_Having recently read Ellethill's "Fair, Strong and Cold," I'm happy she is letting me play in her sandbox for a while. In her story, Faramir and Éowyn_ _do not fall in love before their marriage, but after, their marriage having been arranged for reasons of state rather than of the heart. This makes much sense to me, given their rank and lineage, and the brevity of their time together in the Houses of Healing. In her story, they slowly come to care for each other during the first months of their marriage. _

_This story takes place a month or so after her epilogue. At the reunion of Éomer and Éowyn in Minas Tirith, Aragorn asks Faramir to inspect the northern borders of Ithilien for any small sign of unrest, and the Steward of course immediately complies. He has been away a month, and now returns to Emyn Arnen, and his lady wife. Oh, and did I mention he is ill? _

_  
What can I say, I enjoy writing stories where strong, handsome men suffer illness and must be cared for by strong, beautiful women. Though, in this case, the king and queen help out, too._

_And, in case anyone was wondering about my penchant for companion pieces, I am still learning much about Arda and Tolkien's exquisite characters. I don't quite feel comfortable yet coming up with a set of circumstances of my own for fear of writing something that crosses his intentions. I prefer to trust those who have come before me, and play in their worlds for a little while, until I get my bearings._

_The more R&Rs I get, the more I can know if I am on the right track, or if I stray too far from what is easy to envision. Thanks!_

Drops, like glass beads, fell in a steady rhythm from the gray autumn skies of Ithilien. The steady ping of rain on the boughs of the trees had gone on for three days without cease, a cold mist rising from the leaf-strewn ground.

_Deluge might be a more apt term, _Faramir grimaced, and then wiped at his raw nose for what had to be the hundredth time that hour. They led their dripping horses through the thick foliage, having dismounted the previous morning when the ground proved so muddy that the combined weight of horse and man nearly caused the pair to sink past rescue. He felt as though he had spent the last days taking laps in the icy Anduin fully clothed rather than returning home from a visit to the northern borders. There was not an inch on his body that was not soaked, and for the last several hours he was grateful for his long cloak – not because it afforded any warmth in its sodden state, but because its folds masked his incessant shivering. He swiped a branch away from his face as he slogged through the undergrowth. The tenth month had proven mild at its start, but in its last week had turned suddenly frigid.

The Captain had known since he awoke two days ago that he was becoming ill: the thick pressure in his head, the leaden feel to his limbs, and the painful protest his throat made at any attempt to swallow had portended a vicious cold.

But he had stubbornly pressed on, refusing to slow or take any rest. _ It is naught. _He told himself._ Merely a cold; nothing to fret over._ He had suffered many a cold before; he would doubtless suffer others again.

Any of his company who looked on him would not mark his current state; most of the men who had served with him for nigh on twenty years - and had known nearly every stance of his body - were gone: married and retired, or fallen in the Ring War. And, through long years of practice, the new Prince of Ithilien had become quite consummate at hiding any discomfort or infirmity from the casual observer. The guard that now traveled with him were less seasoned, though no less valiant, and they would not catch the subtle signs that he was unwell: the pale cast to his skin, the soft sniff every ten or so paces, the slight hunch to his shoulders.

Though he did not know it, his former company would have conned him into making camp and gotten him off his feet hours ago, having learned over the many years how loathe their Captain was to acknowledge any infirmity, even past the point of reason.

He glanced over his shoulder. These men - though new to him - had served him proud and true, and until this march had only spoken well of him who was their lord. Many had requested the assignment to his corps in Ithilien, the reputation of the brave yet reserved Prince having spread throughout the land of Gondor.

And some had volunteered simply to serve the Lady of Emyn Arnen, the White Lady of Rohan, who had slain the Witch King of Angmar when no living man could.

A smile curved his lips. _Éowyn!…_

Faramir's heart beat with increasing speed. Lifting the waterskin from where it rested over his shoulder, he took a long swallow of the cool liquid without slowing his pace. He was keen to reach her by this evening, if he could. After nearly a month's separation, he was finally returning home.

The water soothed the fire in his throat as he suppressed the growing urge to cough. Which exact moment he had realized his own love for her, Faramir was not certain. He saw her in his mind as she had been the morning he had departed Minas Tirith: her golden hair glinting in the morning light, an ivory hand lingering on his chest, and her soft lips pressing to his as she whispered, "Return safe to me," before she could speak no more.

They now had been married almost six months' time, having joined together at the request of their king. But – thank the Valar – what started out as merely begrudging respect had deepened into something more resplendent than any he could have imagined.

Thinking back to those first weeks together, when she held herself stiff and cold in his presence, his heart cracked, causing him to close his eyes briefly in pain. He had moved so cautiously then, and would not for all the riches of the world have risked ruining the future they were attempting to build through blundering and haste. For months he had longed to see the ease she finally began to display with him, the lightness to her step, the swiftness of her smiles…

Three months into their marriage he discovered that his wife had miraculously come love him.

Since this revelation, they had spent but four swift weeks enjoying each others' devoted company – days spent in much talk and much silence, on long walks, arm in arm, in lingering kisses, stolen and sweet – before they were summoned to the White City to reunite Éowyn with her brother.

During that time in Ithilien, in their deepening affection, they had finally joined together as husband and wife. He had been gentle and slow in their marriage bed, for even after her first admission of love for him, their union could not be swift, or furious. Nay, that first consummation had been tentative, he moving as slowly as her racing heart had allowed, striving to show her that there was pleasure after the initial pain.

Theirs was a love that had been slow in coming, and slow then in its ripening.

Another branch flicked out to scratch his cheek, and he pushed it away with a numb hand. Recalling, he admitted he had been both eager and apprehensive in their first demonstrations of love, his unease stemming from his realization that there was much about a woman's body – especially one untouched as Éowyn had been – that he did not know. He was not much familiar with these undisclosed arts in the first place. When first a soldier, he had lost his innocence on his brother's coin, but had never acquired a taste for those indifferent, hurried encounters. After a time, he began to turn his brother down when Boromir proposed a trip to the less illustrious levels of the White City, and that was the extent of his knowledge of women.

All who knew Faramir of Gondor could only say he was ever a man of forbearance. However, his wife was a fine wine he could not resist. His breath quickened each time she laid her touch to his skin, and the very sight of her caused his heart to near burst for happiness.

She had sensed his nervousness, and had whispered loving assurance even as her own heart had fluttered like a bird against the bars. Trembling hands explored skin flushed with heat, lips met and breath mingled, hot and shuddering. And in the midst of this had they joined.

They had parted, panting and gazing at each other with shining eyes. Then, rising to eat, they had spent the day walking in the garden, hands entwined, shoulders brushing. They had gone for a long ride in the forest, racing each other and laughing together. That evening, they had joined once more, almost worshipful in their passion, and then lay together in silence, bodies spent. He knew she had long lain awake, once she thought him swept into slumber. In truth he had merely pretended to sleep, not wishing to disturb her thoughts.

She had spent so long in contemplation that he had not been able to help himself – he had reached out through the gift of the House of Húrin. It had caused no small twinge of alarm when he had looked into her heart and found a maelstrom of emotion he had not expected: fear, confusion, longing, sorrow. Not for the first time in his life, he had cursed this two-faced gift that allowed him to see in part, in shapes and in shadows.

_Perhaps she deemed him unsatisfactory in some way… perhaps something he had done had been unknowingly amiss…_

The next morning when he awoke, she was gone from their bed. He had dressed quickly, heart pounding, going to seek her out, and found her sitting quietly eating her breakfast. She had smiled sweetly up at him, no hint of the previous night's turmoil on her face. And so he had kissed her – reverently, almost apologetically – and had sat down with her, not speaking of what had transpired. But that next night, lying side by side, she had responded to his hesitant advances, and some of his unease had withdrawn.

When they had traveled to Gondor, being with her brother and the king and queen had brought out an unguarded happiness in her that healed his heart. She had laughed unbridled, danced carefree, and seemed so joyous in his presence that he knew he could not be other than joyous himself.

And when the morning came when he was to leave for the northern borders, at the gate where he had departed from the city, she had kissed him with a passion that spoke not of a woman who scorned his body and would spurn his bed.

"_Return safe to me…"_

Their first brief separation had allowed them both the time to contemplate their own hearts, and the result had been more than he could have hoped. He felt sure that this separation would have a similar effect; indeed his own desire had grown with each day he spent longing to be by her side.

He quickened his stride, calling, "Make haste, lads," in a voice slightly husky, tinged with longing and the onset of his cold. The drenched company behind him did not notice it, so intent were they on the struggle of man and beast through viscous mud and dark vegetation.

"I do not see the reason for such speed," one young recruit huffed, pulling at his bay who balked at the increase in pace. "Why do we not make camp?"

The older lieutenant at his side quirked his mouth patiently, his salt-and-pepper hair plastered to his scalp under his ineffectual hood. "Had you a lady such as he to come home to," came the gruff reply, "You would understand his impatience."

The lad rolled his eyes in response, muttering a curse to his uncooperative beast, as the heavens continued to pour cold misery upon them, and their Captain pressed them interminably toward Emyn Arnen.

XXXXX


	2. Chapter 2

Five hours later, the Lord Steward was cursing the dark clouds that had thickened in the sky above, cursing the ground which had essentially turned into a bog beneath their feet, and above all cursing himself for choosing this particular time of year to heed the king's request to inspect the northern borders. Upon the king's command he had of course set out immediately from Gondor, his wife remaining behind to enjoy her brother's company, after which she would return to Ithilien and await him there.

_But it was no emergency_, he thought now. He could easily have found sufficient reason to delay until the spring, when weather was warmer and – more often than not – drier. But the King had asked, and he had complied without hesitation, heedless of the possibility of foul weather.

The horses were foundering in the yielding earth. The men had begun to grumble, not even bothering to hide their ill will. And to make matters worse, he was afraid he would not long be able to stave off the fits of sneezes and coughs which threatened to break forth. His thoughts were becoming vague, a heat rising from his collar, and he knew from the hated weary feeling that coursed through every muscle and bone in his body that he was running a fever.

It was slowly becoming clear to him that they would not reach Emyn Arnen tonight. The skies were darkening too swiftly for comfort, the ominous rumble to the east signaling a severe storm. Another quiet swear passed his lips. To be so close to his target and yet have it hover maddeningly out of reach…

His leg sank to the knee in an unseen hole. He sighed, wiping a shaky hand across his damp face. It was no use. They would have to make camp.

Finally, he found a rocky outcropping which looked to house several niches. _It will at least provide shelter from the storm,_ he thought._ Even if it is not as satisfying as our own beds might have been. _He called out to them to make camp, and heard the collective sigh of relief. The men gratefully staggered to claim their spots, man and beast alike dragging their feet in the sludge.

Gondor's Steward leaned against a tree, uncorking his waterskin again with trembling fingers. The long drink emptied the vessel, but did not long relieve the lancing pain in his throat. Resignedly, he ran his fingers through his dark, sopping hair.

His grey eyes studied their surroundings. If he was correct, they were but two or three hours' steady ride from home, under normal conditions. At the rate the company could move in this weather, however, it would have taken them another five or more hours of concentrated toil to reach their destination, and the encroaching storm would o'ertake them while they were still unprotected. Glancing at the men who had sunken wearily to the ground, he knew they were in no condition to press on.

His eyes strayed to the south, a vision of golden hair swimming in his mind, his chest heavy with sorrow.

_Perhaps not all of us…_ he thought suddenly. The rough bark bit into his shoulder blades as he leaned more heavily against it, trying to catch the thoughts that seemed to chase about his mind like unruly colts.

_Point the first, the men are too weary to continue, but we are close enough now that they do not need my leadership... Point the second, it is not perhaps in the best interest of my health to spend another night out in the elements… Point the third… _he issued a languid sigh, heart aching and impassioned. …_Éowyn…_

Eyes bright and feverish, the Prince of Ithilien waved one of his lieutenants over, issuing rough commands and discarding all but the most vital of his gear. He struggled into the saddle, spurring his horse toward Emyn Arnen, where the Lady of Rohan waited.


	3. Chapter 3

Éowyn fussed over her skirt, and adjusted the hem that did not need adjusting. The fire crackled in the grate, all around her still and calm, yet her azure gaze kept flicking anxiously to the door. Expelling a harsh breath, she rose and paced fretfully from window to window, peering out into the growing darkness. The messenger had arrived in the early afternoon informing her that her husband's company was but a few hours' ride from the estate and, barring any impediment, would arrive just after nightfall. The torches around the wooden outbuildings had been lit but, as the sky grew more menacing, she was beginning to lose all hope that they would appear before the storm.

Her finger found its way to her lips, and she tapped it absently against her teeth. Her husband had wandered this land for more than two decades; she knew he would wisely find shelter for his men, finally arriving in the morning. She sighed for what had to be the hundredth time that hour, and wandered aimlessly back to her chair. Picking up her book, she settled down and strove to distract herself from her ridiculous misgivings.

_Come now,_ she shook herself lightly. _Faramir has ever proven patient and practical in all things. As much as you long to see him, he would not put his company at unnecessary risk… _She took a long golden strand and worried it between her fingers. _No matter how you pine for his return…_

She had wondered what this homecoming would bring. His first homecoming had heralded the bright days of their marriage. True, their first union had hurt more than she had anticipated, but Faramir had been more than gentle, and the next day spent walking in bliss and then their joyous ride through the forest had filled her with more happiness than she knew was possible. So she had welcomed him that night when he sought to join with her again. After he had gone to sleep, she had lain awake contemplating the strange set of circumstances that had brought them together… Wormtongue, Aragorn the High King, the fever pitch of battle, her uncle's death…

The next morning, Faramir had seemed quiet, pensive. She assumed it had to do with some matter of state, and thought little of it. The next days had been spent much as the previous ones had been – enjoying each other's company and planning the future repair of both Gondor and Ithilien.

They had been summoned to Gondor, and the reunion with her brother brought her happiness to near completion. She had spoken truth to Éomer when she had remarked, _"Be not troubled, Éomer, for our days come light and peaceful, and I am glad. I love him, and he loves me in turn…"_

An image came unbidden to her thoughts, of her husband seated across from her in his office, the sun bringing out the blue and red highlights in his raven hair, his shy unassuming smile, warmth in his grey eyes…

Oh that he would return home!

"_Come, Éowyn!" _she tasked herself, her cheeks burning. _"Your husband is the Steward of Gondor, Prince of Ithilien, and Captain of the Rangers. It is not a wife's place to demand attention from her lord… especially with respect to the marriage bed!" _In truth, she had longed for him to lay hands on her, to please her and show her ways in which to please him. But she had no earthly idea of how often a husband should require service of his wife, nor how she should conduct herself with regards to this matter. It seemed to her to be yet another thing which she could learn from him, if he took it in his hands to teach her.

And so she dutifully waited, though the waiting vexed her as waiting always had been wont to do.

The Lady of Ithilien sighed and returned to the chair and took up the leather-bound volume she had been studying, her eyes squinting at the Sindarin in the firelight.


	4. Chapter 4

XXXX

Somehow she must have dozed off, for some time later her eyes flew open at a sound out in the yard. The shieldmaiden within surfaced, her keen hearing picking up the soft whicker and stamp of a horse, and the forgotten book somehow found its own way to the table by the chair. All her focus was on the heavy wooden door to their stone house, her face pinched and shadowed in the dim light. She glanced swiftly about the room, her deadly gaze stopping on a large knife which glinted on her half-discarded dinner platter. Éowyn crept to it, grasping the ivory handle and making her way soundlessly to press her body flat against the wall behind the door.

The blindfold game her husband had played with her came unbidden to her thoughts. If only there had been more time to pursue it! How that study would come in handy now: to be able to sneak up behind an intruder, and have the advantage in the attack…

She heard the rough scrape of a boot against the threshold, her heart thundering in her chest. The handle turned, and the door slowly pushed its way into the room…

A hooded figure thumped inside, and she felt a smirk twitch her lips to see that the invader seemed to be distracted, not on his guard. Water trickled sloppily from his cape on the stone floor, and his hands came up to push back the sodden hood…

Her eyes widened as she noticed the gold and silver rings gleaming on his right hand, and her heart leapt to behold the bedraggled, dripping figure of her husband swaying before her.

With a desperate cry she dropped the knife, flinging her arms about his neck and holding him close. He flinched violently from this unexpected attack, but within a few moments his arms came around her, his hands crushing her to him in a fierce embrace. She cared not that his garments were soaked through, and consequently now so were hers. She cared only that he was home and hale and in her arms! She breathed the woodsy scent of Ithilien that hung on him, hungry as one long starving, relishing the feel of his body pressed to hers.

"At last!" she murmured before she could stop herself.

_How different this homecoming is,_ she thought, _from one that might have occurred when first we were married…_

How long they stood there, locked in loving embrace, she could not say. After the long month without him - which taxed her much the same as his first ten-day separation, and yet was three times the length - the White Lady could not bring herself to move away from her husband… not just yet… Her fingers burned where they clutched his cloak, his arms solid and strong around her slim waist, his face buried in her golden hair.

Finally, however, her ears detected something odd. His breath wheezed slightly in his chest, which seemed to heave more than it ought. And - come to think of it - his skin gave off a heat that was at odds with the icy rain streaming from his dark wet locks... She pulled back enough to rake his face with sharp scrutiny, her white brow furrowed with concern. His eyes were too bright, a flushed spot of fever on each ashen cheek, weariness hanging on him like a second cloak.

"You are ill!" she breathed, anxiously pressing a cool hand to his febrile brow, distress closing her heart in its vice-like grip.

"It is nothing," he replied softly, taking her hands in his, not wanting her to worry. He drew himself up straighter, composing his features into a brave if wan smile. "It is just the damp of the brisk autumn rain. I will change this sodden rainment and be a new man!" But his very declaration betrayed him - his clogged head making his voice thick in addition to low and hoarse.

Her look became stern. "Faramir," she chided softly, using his name to heighten her displeasure. "I will brook no deceit."

And so, as she pressed a slim hand to his heated brow, he sighed, allowing his tired eyes to slide shut, and leaned gratefully into her touch. His irritated throat wanted to cough, his body gripped by unrelenting chills, which he stubbornly suppressed standing thus before his lady. The Steward fervently wished this miserable cold would just disappear, so that he could enjoy this long-desired homecoming in the way he had imagined during this interminable separation.

"Forgive me," he bowed slightly, all contrition. He gazed up at her through soft eyes." The journey was long," he sighed. _Longer than she could ever know… her hair glows gold in the firelight. Valar, she is beautiful! _"Still, I am but a little weary," he insisted, his voice deep.

He did not know why he felt the need to conceal his illness, beyond force of habit. Truth be told, he felt absolutely wretched. As he had ridden the distance between where his company made camp and the home he yearned to see, he had not bothered to hide the symptoms now that no one was around to mark them. Harsh coughing had ripped his lungs, wrenching sneezes had burst forth unchecked. He had stubbornly refused to slow his pace, or take any rest, so intent was he on reaching her side.

Éowyn's eyebrow quirked. "But where is your company?" she asked, turning to glance out the window into the yard.

"I left them," he replied, hearing at once how offensive it sounded. Blood rushed to his cheeks. "That is," he amended hastily, "We made camp, but we were so close and… nay, we… we could not have arrived tonight, not in this weather… But I wanted… they no longer required my assistance, and I…_we were so close!" _He knew not how to express the compulsion that had driven him, had never before found himself so ineloquent! Were he not so weary, did the fog not choke the thoughts in his head rendering speech so difficult, he would have found it easier to explain his circumstances. "So I…"

What had he done? He had clutched the reins in a white-knuckled grip, had spurred his horse, digging his heels and urging it to push to the limits of endurance. He had dropped gracelessly from the saddle in the yard, thankful that the stable boy had come sprinting out into the howling gale to take his steed: he had not the strength to provide the well-deserved care for the exhausted animal who had delivered him safely home.

"I…"

"Come," his wife's warm voice rescued him from his foundering. She could see at once that he was exhausted, the task of speaking for once beyond him. Her strong hand on his arm steered him towards their bedchamber, and he felt the urgency that had carried him home slowly slipping away. "It is late. And you are more than a little weary, my lord."

He flinched to hear the formal title pass her lips. Faramir had thought they had breached that barrier between them in the days before his absence, only using the term when amongst those at court. But perhaps the month they had been apart had been enough to rebuild that cursed wall between them, the one he had patiently striven to tear down… Perhaps she was angry with him for abandoning his men…

The Lady of the Mark effectively masked her concern, but in truth her heart had sunk to the pit of her stomach like a stone. He had left his men? This was not like him… The Captain of the Ithilien Rangers loved his men as his own kin. But she could see he was barely on his feet, and she realized that he was colder than he would let on, as he tried to control the shivers that wracked his body. _To think that he had pressed on thus in the freezing rain! Could none in the company see that their Captain was so obviously ill?_

Éowyn led him to their chamber where she quickly stripped him of his soggy cloak, weapons, and muddy boots. She fetched a sleepy house servant from the neighboring room, issuing soft commands for hot water and dry towels. The towels appeared almost immediately, and she knew the water would not be long in coming.

"Now," she toned softly, easing the Lord of Ithilien gently into a chair by the fire, struck by the disparity between the regal title and the currently dripping and exhausted man in front of her who bore it. "Let us make you warm and dry." She grew more alarmed to see how he seemed to fade before her very eyes, his dark head turning swiftly, attempting to smother several wet coughs into the crook of his arm. _There is no need to fear,_ she reassured herself. _It is merely a bad cold. Men can be much like children when they are ill… _She hurried to remove the rest of his sodden garments, feeling his body tense under her hands as he fought not to succumb to his chill.

The green surcoat went first, followed closely by his quilted undertunic. The Lady sucked in a slow breath to see his bare chest revealed in the firelight. Bema, he was beautiful! He was built like a cat, lithe and lean, with supple, sinewy muscles under surprisingly fair skin lightly dusted with freckles. Strong shoulders topped a slim chest that ran down to a taut, flat stomach and narrow hips; there was not an ounce of fat on the slender frame. Just the sight of him sent rivers of heat coursing through her blood.

In Gondor is never proper for man and woman to see the other unclad – even if that man and woman are husband and wife – and so all marriage duties would be conducted in nightclothes, under bedcovers, by curtain-shrouded moonlight. First tantalizing explorations of each other would be accomplished almost solely by touch, by taste, by sound and smell and intuition…

But she was a woman of Rohan, and when they had first made love it had been in daylight, so she had first seen him thus disrobed. Now to see him so again brought visions of that day to her mind. She could not help the flush that crept up her neck, nor the subtle trembling that came over her hands.

She took herself to task, appalled that she had allowed such sordid thoughts to distract her! Never before had such notions entered her mind! True, in those days they had spent exploring the fullness and depth of their feelings for one another, she had felt a heat wash through her at the nearness of him, had felt her blood sing in her veins at each breathless kiss. But her husband's endless patience with her apprehension only caused respect and admiration for him to increase beyond all reckoning. She could never have conceived of such a man! Not for the first time, she thanked the Valar that she had been so fortunate to wed with such a one as he!

Éowyn reached up to knot her hair back from her flushed face. She had no time to spend in such reverie, not when the man in question required her attention and aid. It had been raining for the past several days and - judging by the pool of water that grew with each layer she discarded - her husband had been far too chilled for far too long. The stirrings of her desire would have to wait until Faramir was made well.

A servant whisked away the clothes with a soft, "M'lady," bobbing a quick courtesy before turning to check on the hot water.

"Thank you, Iora," Éowyn replied absently, all her attention on the dripping man before her. The first large towel she wrapped firmly about his shoulders, rubbing warmth into the strained muscles. Once the servant had withdrawn, she removed his breeches with a modestly averted eye, and a second towel was soon tucked around his legs. The third she used to gently massage the rain from his wet hair.

Faramir helped her where he could, though all awareness came to him distorted, as if through water. The warmth settled around him, chasing away the worst of the chills, and the moment her fingers began to work the towel in his hair he let go completely with an unreserved sigh. A twinge deep in his nose caused him to pinch it shut with a calloused hand. It was no use, however, as soon a powerful sneeze ripped through his tired body.

The lady's white hands stilled their movements. "My lord?"

He waved a hand impatiently at her, dropping his head and issuing a second haggard sneeze, drawn out and rough. A third followed. Then, he sighed, leaning back and sniffling weakly.

A hand on his shoulder caused him to cast bleary eyes up to the shimmering angel beside him. The Steward's lady wife held out a soft cloth, which he accepted gratefully. He swiftly tended to his nose, and then she resumed her task of drying his hair, running the towel through its raven strands.

When she was satisfied that she had done all she could, she draped the towel over a chair near the fire to dry. Then, she knelt in front of this Man of Gondor… her lord… her love…

"Faramir?" she called gently. He turned glazed eyes to meet her anxious blue. It was plain that he was indeed ill, but no healer may proceed without some indication from the patient of the complaint. And so she murmured, "I would have you speak plainly," fixing him with an earnest expression. "How do you feel? Are you unwell?"

Faramir regarded her. He took a deep breath, and for a moment she feared he would fall back behind the barriers of self-control impressed on him since childhood – ones that declared illness weakness, and admission cowardice. He was ever his father's son.

But instead he let that breath out in a long sigh, his shoulders dropping. "Éowyn," he whispered thickly, closing his eyes. Every joint ached, exhaustion dragging at his limbs until he felt as though he were sinking helplessly in the Dead Marshes. His voice made deep with illness and unease, he responded, haltingly, "I own I do not feel very well at all."

Tears pricked her eyes, but she blinked them back. "Then let me give you ease, my love," she replied, her voice soft and low between them.

His face was drawn, lines of exhaustion marring his handsome features. She placed cool fingers on his brow, feeling the warmth of his fever rising to meet them. Her blue eyes searched his face, as if a miraculous cure would surface from its heated depths, like the inscription on the One Ring. When it did not, she took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. Turning to their dressing chest, she secured a soft linen nightshirt and helped him put it on, frowning when he tried to swallow more painful-sounding coughs.

Placing both hands on either side of his face, she placed a soft kiss to his brow, gauging. It was growing warmer, already hotter than she would have liked. Her mouth set in a grim line, she helped him to his feet and settled him in their carved, wide bed.

Smoothing his still-damp hair back from his face, she looked up to see the servant returning with a kettle of hot water, cups, a bowl of broth, and tins of herbs. One side of her mouth turning up, she nodded her thanks to the intuitive girl, then set about applying the knowledge she gained during her stay in the Houses of Healing.

First she held out the bowl of broth. Faramir looked at it and grimaced. "I do not hunger," he tried, but her eyes hardened and her lips pursed.

"Whether you hunger or no, my lord," she replied. "You must take nourishment. I'll wager you have eaten little for days, and you must keep your strength." And so, patiently pressing the bowl to her husband's lips, she urged him to drink it dry. Then, she used the herbs to brew a strong tea that Faramir also drank, this time gratefully.

"Sleep," she urged, setting the cup aside and tucking the covers up around the ailing man. Not needing to be told twice, the Prince if Ithilien breathed a final sigh and stilled, sinking further into the pillow. He looked utterly exhausted, his brow slightly creased with the effort of his feverish sleep, and so unsettlingly vulnerable. It was so strange to see him thus, helpless and in need.

He had always seemed so strong, so sure. Even when she knew he wrestled with his own dark demons those first days after the Battle of Pelennor Fields, he had never spoken much of his pain. Instead, he had still seemed to emanate a quiet confidence, a reassuring poise that had helped her find her own peace.

Sitting gingerly on the edge of the bed, Éowyn tenderly combed her fingers through his raven hair, knowing how much her husband enjoyed it, hoping it would help him find rest, and healing.

His throat stabbed him through with pain now not just when he swallowed, but when he merely breathed. His limbs ached mercilessly, his head swimming with confusion from his fever. Faramir could have wept with happiness as those long, slender fingertips ran through his hair, almost playfully, carefree, as if Éowyn had all the time in the world... as if she could keep her hands on him for hours, days, forever… _Oh... her touch… who knew a hand could bring so much peace… _

The Steward's clouded mind began to wander, indulging in dark thoughts he had not afforded himself for years. It could crush the spirit, he knew now, not to be touched, to live all alone for too long. He knew that now, knew about touch, and love... When he had been younger, it hadn't seemed important. Affection was not something he received much from his father, from anyone... Of course there had been Boromir's brotherly punches, an arm around his shoulder, or a rib-cracking hug. But the Steward's younger son had learned to live without touch once the brothers went their separate ways – Boromir first to his duty as heir to the Stewardship of Gondor , and then later he to Ithilien.

He was learning now that he could no longer pretend that he didn't need the simple, quiet love Éowyn had given him, that it hurt when it was gone... a terrible, inescapable heartache…

He had felt such an ache, this month apart from her.

Now, as he felt her nearness, her love, a peace began to surround him, allowing him to relax, finally giving in to his body's craving for rest. He was home, he was safe, and he was once again at the side of she whose light eased his cares as none other could. So despite the ravages of his illness, her soft touch soothed the fever's demons, and he slipped quickly into sleep.

Éowyn smiled to hear his soft snores, rising soundlessly and going to clean up the evidence of his water-logged arrival, praying that a night's sleep and the healing herbs will rid him of his fever and restore her husband to health…


	5. Chapter 5

_From this point on I am not entirely happy with the style of my writing. I got to the point where the story fought its way out, and did not allow me the time to pause to consider turn of phrase or elegance of form. _

_But the muse called insistently… and the witch called collect…_

Almost two marks had passed while the Lady of Emyn Arnen and her servant mopped puddles of water, dashed out to the barn to check on the horses, and wrung out her lord's clothes. They worked side by side – as they often did – setting the house to rights. When they finished, she wiped the sweat from her brow, then made to retire with her sleeping husband.

Before even entering the dim room, Éowyn could hear movement and what sounded like coughing from behind the door. When she swung it open, she saw Faramir tossing and turning on the bed, moaning softly in his delirium.

_How long has he been crying out so while I dawdled needlessly with puddles and clothes!_

She quickly reached to set a match to the candles near the bed. Their light cast deep shadows across the Lord Steward's pale face, illuminating the sweat that glimmered on his brow and chest. Coverlets and sheets lay tangled about his legs. She placed the back of her hand to his flushed cheek, her eyes widening at what she felt.

"Oh, Bema!" she whispered, terror raking sharp claws through her body.

Such a fever! Éowyn had never felt anyone so hot in her life! Even among those gravely wounded in the Houses of Healing after the terrible war… It was plain from the sound of his breathing that the illness had settled deep within his lungs, and she knew that it was dangerous, even to one so strong and hale as her husband. No matter how expertly treated, it could swiftly take his life. He had been home less than two marks…

_How could anyone go from being so chilled to so fevered so fast? What must I do?_

Hastening to the other room, she filled a bowl with cold water and grabbed a soft cloth. Going back to sit on the bed, sponging his face, neck, and chest with the cool liquid, she was surprised it didn't sizzle and give off steam; the poor man was burning up!

_It was dark and hot. He'd never felt so hot before... His throat was on fire. And he couldn't breathe. Something was coiled around his chest, keeping him from drawing a breath. And when he did, it only caused him to cough, which sent agony tearing through his head. It was so dark. He kept running, trying to find the door. Why couldn't he find some light, some air? He felt dizzy, hot... and everything hurt… _

He moaned again, his breath coming in labored gasps. "Shhh," a soft voice pierced through the stifling darkness. "My love… You are safe… I am here..."

_Fire… heat… please, someone, help me…_

Éowyn's mind raced, trying to think of what to do next. The cool water seemed to be calming him slightly, but that alone wouldn't be enough to break his fever. The Captain had led his company in that freezing cold for days…

"Please..." he whispered, fighting for breath. "... water..." The note of desperation in his voice caused her heart nearly to break. Pushing the sweat-soaked hair back from his burning face with one hand, she took his hand and squeezed it, trying to reassure him with its strength.

"Do not fear. Everything will be all right. Faramir," she tried using his name for emphasis. "I will fetch you something to drink."

He seemed to hear her, and calmed, though still turning his head restlessly on the pillow. Clumsily, she used her free hand to try and stack the pillows on the bed so that he could lie a little more upright, knowing it would help his breathing. Then, she raised him gently onto them, drawing the covers back up over his shivering form.

Fetching first a cup of water, she supported his head as he drained it in a matter of moments. She poured a second, and this, too, he drank, seeming to possess a quenchless thirst.

_What more can I do? What could possibly bring down a fever like this? Only more herbs…_ Éowyn rushed to steep another cup of healing tea, her hands shaking with fear.

Until she could send for the king, it would have to do.

Aragorn was the most skilled healer she knew, even more so that the Warden in the Houses of Healing. He would know how best to help her husband. While the tea steeped, she penned a swift message, calling for the servants and bidding them to send the swiftest rider to Minas Tirith. The wind outside raged, and she whispered a fervent prayer that the rider would meet with no hindrance in his flight.

The tea was ready. Gently shaking her lord's shoulder to wake him, she watched as his glazed eyes slid open, not really focusing on anything.

"Beloved," she toned soothingly. "Here, this will ease your fever." She again brought the cup to his cracked lips, one hand supporting him, as he had not the strength. The Lady had to pull it away as he started gulping at it frantically. "Easy!" she cried, laying her hand once more upon his fiery cheek.

Her lord nodded that he had heard her, and she brought the rim of the cup back to his mouth. He took it easier, and finished the drink, looking at her expectantly for more. Leaning his sweat-soaked head back gently, she went to the water pitcher and returned with the filled cup. Faramir drank about half of it before his eyes slid shut, and he relaxed back into the pillows, letting out a long breath that she took to be either exhaustion or relief... or both...

Sponging his face and neck again with the wet cloth, Éowyn's brows knit together with worry. _Please, Aragorn,_ she prayed. _Hurry!_


	6. Chapter 6

_Darkness. And bitter cold. He could still smell the dankness of the tomb; feel the cold that ripped its icy fingers through his entire body. Valar, he hurt! His head felt swollen, heavy. Every breath brought a blaze of pain. He heard the fire crackle, the slow drip of oil down the wood. His arm from fingertips to shoulder was burning, and he moaned in agony. A harsh voice roared, a sickening scream that caused him to shake violently with fear. Who was it? Where was he? The Steward's second son didn't think he could take much more… _

Three more marks had passed. He'd stopped sweating by now, with only a dry heat radiating off him. The White Lady didn't think that was a good sign.

"...no..."

Faramir was tossing and turning, muttering to himself under his breath. She leaned forward, trying to make out what he was saying.

"...no... please... Father..."

His wife's heart blenched. Éowyn could hear the pain in his voice, and knew that she had no desire to hear him re-live the atrocities he had suffered. But, she had no choice, for she would not budge from his side. Wringing out the cold cloth, she sponged it over his flushed face.

"...Father... I hurt..."

"I know, my love," she tried, running her fingers through his sweat-damp hair. She knew not if he meant remembered or current pain... and it mattered not. Any pain he had ever experienced was more than she would have wished for him to bear. "I am sorry."

He turned to look in the direction of the voice, struggling to see anything through his blurred vision.

The Lady of Rohan could see him trying to figure out where he was, who she was. She could still feel the heat of fever on him, and he was trembling under her hands.

_He must be exhausted…_

She caught one of his hands in hers, still bathing him with the cool water, trying to bring the fever down.

"...no... cannot... cannot breathe..."

He erupted in a fit of coughing. His breathing became labored, and wheezed heavily in his chest as he fought to draw breath. She reached out a hand and placed it across his brow. Grey eyes flew open, looking at her with such pleading. Tears formed in her eyes as the coughs continued to be wrenched from his chest, and he struggled to sit up. She put one arm around his back, bracing him until he was upright enough to stop struggling. The coughing soon subsided, leaving him weak and sagging against her.

"Shh... easy, beloved, easy..." His shoulders tensed as another fit of wracking coughs tore through his chest, and he gasped for breath. "Shh," she kept trying to break through to him. "Easy... my lord, easy. I am here. You are not alone."

"...cannot... breathe..."

Faramir didn't seem to hear her, beginning to panic. His lips were tinged with blue, and he struggled in her arms.

"Shh," she continued, her voice soothing as she had been instructed in the Houses. In truth she felt no such calm. "I know. Just relax. Try to breathe slowly."

The coughing continued, deep and wet, grating Éowyn's ears and causing her to wince at the harsh sound. Still, it did not abate. _So long… how can he stand it? _

Finally, he could no longer speak, his entire energy focused on coughing and breathing. He was bent nearly in half, clutching his chest as it spasmed again and again.

Faramir's vision was growing dark. The smoke wrapped its thick hands around his throat and was choking him. His lungs burned, begging for air. His heart raced, trying desperately to draw a breath, and every nerve in his body was screaming in pain.

_Father… Boromir… Where are you, brother?… I need you… Why don't you come?…_

Éowyn had one arm around his chest, trying to brace him as he leaned into it, hacking away. She found herself using her other hand to rub his hot back, trying to help quiet his coughing and, if nothing else, to calm him down. After what seemed like forever, after he had coughed until his lungs burned and his throat had been ripped to shreds, the fit ceased. He slumped against her, panting heavily.

She held him there for a while, allowing him time to catch his breath. Éowyn could hear the congestion wheezing thickly in his chest, but his coughing had failed to bring anything up. Her face effectively masking her terror, she eased him back a bit and put her fingers under his chin, lifting his face. Lord Faramir's eyes were glazed with fever and pain, sweat coursing down his neck as he struggled to calm his racing heart.

"Shh... all is well... you are safe..." She pushed the damp hair back from his face in a repeated gesture of love and comfort, and looked searchingly into his clouded gaze. What she saw there fain broke her heart.

_Ah! He does not know me!_

Tears she could no longer hold back began streaming down her ivory cheeks. Éowyn pulled him close, rubbing his back again and whispering sweet endearments as he shook and gasped into her chest.

_Father? Boromir? _His weary mind cried. _No… _he thought, sorrow and sickness crushing him as powerfully as the dark wave of his dreams. _They are both gone..._

Pain lanced through his heart, fear and exhaustion wreaking havoc on his mind. He had once thought that his brother's death was the worst he would have to endure... and then his father's death could have consumed his mind as surely as the pyre almost had his body… But there had been so much to do, so much to prepare in the coming of the king that he had not the time to indulge in weakness and tears. Now, his fever brought back all the fear and grief, turned every shadow into a wraith, every sound into the clash of a sword or the scream of yet another dying man…

His chest burned, his every breath threatening to launch him into another raking series of coughs. His dark vision swam, his head pounding in dizzying, sickening waves. His throat was on fire, while his limbs shook with chills. But sitting up felt good... he could almost breathe... He was being held, and that in and of itself was a comfort. The soft arms weren't restraining, but safe and soothing… warm, strong arms...

"…Boromir?…"

Éowyn heard his faint whisper, and felt him grow heavy, his breath becoming steadier. Spent beyond words, he slumped wearily against her. She made a move to lay him back down, but felt him stiffen, a small moan escaping his lips. Confused, she allowed him to remain in her arms, rubbing his back absently with her free hand.

_Warm… safe… and a soft voice… Mother?..._

The fabric under his cheek was soft and the voice that occasionally floated alongside the heartbeat was a woman's voice. It couldn't be though, not after his whole life, that his mother had hold of him and was keeping watch while he slept. That would be too much.

There had been many things in his life that Faramir wanted that he knew were unlikely to happen, but he'd still wished for them. He'd never once let himself wish that his mother were still alive. The emptiness of never really knowing her was too great and too painful. Better to know that it was not meant to be. Better to keep your back to it and walk away.

It'd been so long, and he had tried so hard to keep going, walking through a life that was too hard too often. Still, it was someone. Faramir knew if he put his mind to it, he could think of who it might be, protecting him, comforting him. But he was too tired, too sick to think on it right now. He just listened to the heartbeat and let it ease him back to sleep.

After several long minutes, all the tension drained from his shoulders. Éowyn felt his breathing become even, though still raspy and shallow. He was asleep.

Gently, the distraught wife lowered her ill husband back to the bed, and tucked the blankets around him. He sighed in sleep, somewhat peaceful. She crept to the fire to fetch the poultice she had been preparing to loosen the fluid in Faramir's lungs. After spreading it thick on his chest, she lay beside him, sitting up against the headboard and placing a hand on his shoulder, so that she could be with him while he slept. He coughed weakly in sleep, the poultice filling the room with its pungent, healing vapors.

His illness exhausted her. Not for the first time in her life, she felt the crippling despair that told her she was losing one she dearly loved. For how could he survive such a fever? He could barely breathe, fluid clogging his lungs, and was not able to rest as he needed to regain his strength. Éowyn labored to keep his physical needs foremost in her mind, for she knew if she allowed his delirious ramblings to penetrate her heart it would shatter into a thousand desperate pieces.

She thought back to those first days in the Houses of Healing, and then his visit to Rohan during their betrothal. His frank nature first had eased her mind, giving her an anchor when the world was about to end, asylum for her despairing soul. His gentle spirit had then touched her heart, easing her misgivings and chasing away all doubt. And now, he was so much a part of her life that she shuddered to think of facing Middle Earth alone.

Éowyn closed her eyes, willing herself to sleep while he seemed somewhat at peace. A tear tracked slowly down her face and into her golden hair, and she had not the strength to wipe it away.

XXXX

Aragorn was deep in sleep, curled around his wife in their enormous bed.

Why anyone had ever thought that a king would need a larger piece of furniture than any other Man, he could never understand. But more than a year had passed since he had taken up his authority in the City, and he was slowly coming to terms with the strong disparity in sleeping arrangements between a Ranger of the North and the High King of Gondor.

And then there was his lovely wife. After so many years of infrequent meetings, disrupted courtship, and uncertain futures, he finally held her in his arms. This was another thing he was growing used to, a thing more pleasing than any other – the feel of her beside him as he slept, as most of his nearly ninety years on Middle Earth had been spent sleeping alone.

Now, his slumber was peaceful and dreamless, his cares eased, his arm resting across her chest, head pillowed near her shoulder.

So it came as quite an unwelcome surprise when a knock sounded on the door. He stirred, coming awake unwillingly, his long years in the wild and the softness of his bed both warring for his attention. The knock repeated itself, and he lithely slipped from the covers without disturbing Arwen's own peaceful slumber.

Two men were standing there when he opened the door, one he recognized as his valet. The other, however, was soaked to the skin, breathing hard, and bore the emblems of Ithilien on his tunic. The second man thrust a missive out, which the king took, his expression grave.

He fully expected to see his Steward's controlled hand informing him of a skirmish on the northern borders of Ithilien, perhaps calling for reinforcements. What surprised him was to see another fine script, harried and shaken.

_Lord High King of Gondor, Aragorn son of Arathorn,_

_Your friend and Steward has returned to his estate at Emyn Arnen, and is gravely ill. His Lady begs you hasten to his aid, as yours may be the only hand that can save his life._

_Your humble servant, _

_Éowyn, Lady of Ithilien_

"My love?" Arwen's soft voice sounded in his ear, and he nearly jumped out of his skin.

"Must you always do that!" he hissed, not angry, but startled still. Somehow she took some sort of mischievous delight in sneaking up behind him, as if reminding him that for all his years as a Ranger, nothing could match one of the Eldar for stealth. He handed her the missive.

The messenger coughed, almost apologetic, "My lord?" His voice was dragging with weariness.

"We shall go to him," Arwen replied regally, her swift eyes having scanned the brief message.

"**_Ea ne lá maurë an vanyamme," _**the king replied to her._**"Heru ea laiwa, nan polinye casta a hanu. Anwavë ea massánië a Ithilien avá mera…" **("There is no need for us both to go. He is ill, but I can tend to him. I am sure the Lady of Ithilien does not wish...")_

"**_Avá … Olanye."_** _(No… I dreamt.)_

Aragorn quirked a questioning brow at her, but her face was serene. He knew that look: she had glimpsed something beyond the misty veils of time and would not be swayed, but would accompany him on the fierce ride in the howling gale. And so the king nodded to the messenger before issuing soft orders to his valet. The man from Ithilien would be taken to a comfortable chamber, and given food and rest. There would be no need to send word back to Emyn Arnen: the king and queen would reach it swifter than any rider in Gondor.


	7. Chapter 7

_Cold…_ _It is so very cold…_

The Prince of Ithilien shook and shivered, pulling the blankets closer around in a vain attempt to get warm. His limbs quaked and his teeth chattered violently. He moaned softly, his entire body aching.

Then, suddenly, he was burning up. Sweating. _Why was it so hot?_ He pushed the covers off, moving restlessly in the scorching heat. Coughing knifed through him, feeling a sick burning in his chest and a raw fire in his throat.

But soon he was back to shivering again. His body couldn't seem to make up its mind. Valar, but he was thirsty! His head was pounding, his arms and legs feeling as if they were made of wood. He was trapped in that fog-filled place between sleep and waking, where nightmares roamed through cloudy thoughts.

Dark, swirling images raced through his mind - his father's angry whisper wishing that he had died and Boromir had lived, the sing of arrows and the icy sting of the Black Breath, the sight of his father's body as it was consumed by flames...

His heart pounded with fear. Flames were licking closer to his body, but he seemed paralyzed, unable to roll away or call for help. A constant sound, like rain, filled his ears. It seemed to seep through his head until the rain filled his eyes. It slid down his pain-filled throat until it pooled in his chest, causing the tightness to nearly suffocate him…

"_Remember today, little brother…"_

"_Always you cast a poor reflection on me…"_

Suddenly there was a crash of thunder that shook the house, and he woke up with a cry, tears streaming down his cheeks, panting hard.

"Faramir?" came a soft, distant voice in the darkness.

He was almost too overcome to notice, fear and grief crushing him in violent waves. His strength was gone, his defenses completely broken down.

_Time has had its way with me… my broken, tired hands can't hold a thing…_

_"The house of Stewards has failed!" _

Suddenly, he felt soft, gentle hands on him, and the floodgates swung open wide.

Éowyn did not know what else to do - she pulled his shaking body to her, wrapping her arms around him, and started to stroke his hair, his back, whispering softly, "Shh, my love... I am here..." over and over.

His mind clashed with memory. Osgiliath. The causeway.

_The failures of my past still swell beneath…_

_I am weak. Ah, Father was right! _

Four marks had gone by since she had slipped into a restless doze. Faramir had woken her with his tossing and turning, and now the back of his neck was so hot she thought it might glow red in the dark, and when she moved her fingers to his damp cheek, she found that there it was the same. _He is burning up!_ She felt his arms slip clumsily around her and tighten, and… _what… what is this?..._

_Bema no!_

She was horrified! His whole body was trembling as it was wracked with his half-suppressed heart-wrenching sobs. She had never seen him shed more than a tear before this, even when he awoke from his dark and terrible dreams…

They sat there for a long while as he cried, she trying not to think about how high his fever was and rocking him gently, murmuring softly into his ear to calm him down.

_Boromir… father… oh, I have lost them both! _He wept as he never had before, pouring out all his grief, loneliness, and frustration into his tears. Only Éowyn's soft voice in his ear helped him to keep from drowning. Her voice was his lifeline in the storm. The sobs that tore out of him were sheer torture, each of them extracted with excruciating slowness, like shards of barbed iron, slivers of glass from a deep, painful wound... but there was also release in that pain, the glimpse of a true peace, for the first time in months, if not years...

_I need a heart that carries on through the pain… when the walls start collapsing again…_

"_Much must be risked in war. But I will not yield the River and the Pelennor unfought -- not if there is a captain here who has still the courage to do his lord's will."_

His father's cold voice echoed in his head, reminded him of his inferiority, his weakness. But he was too tired... to tired to try and pull away... someone was here now, really here holding him, and everything was all right... it was going to be all right...

After a while, his sobs became less harsh, his shoulders hitching a little as he tried to calm his breathing. It was only then that The Captain of the White Tower noticed how tightly he was holding on. He felt how near this person was, how warm and soft and strong, and he drank in her presence like sweet wine.

She felt him do it, and noticed how he seemed to draw strength from her being there, and her heart leapt. She waited until she felt he was calmer, and then pulled back a little to push the hair away from his face. Again, she felt the heat radiating off of his body.

The storm still raged outside, and as such no sun would rise this morn. Her rider had taken a horse of the Mark, and she knew he would have crossed the distance by now. _Please hurry!_ She prayed, feeling her husband shaking in her arms.

"Faramir?" she murmured softly. He loved the way this lovely creature said his name. "You're fever has risen."

Then, he felt her lips being pressed to his forehead. They felt like soft, cool rose petals. He basked in the tenderness of the brief kiss, its sweetness melting the tightness in his chest, even after she had pulled away.

He sat there for a moment, still shaking a little in the aftermath. She continued patiently stroking his face, gently wiping the tears away.

The Lady knew he needed water, needed to drink to replenish the moisture he was losing to his fever. She knew she needed to bathe his body, to fight this enemy with what weapons she had until Aragorn could come. _This demon,_ she wanted to spit. _This infernal hellish nightmare, I'd strangle with my bare hands if it were flesh and blood. I'd fight a wild boar, armed with only a kitchen knife, rather then watch him suffer like this! Aragorn, where are you?_

All her hopes now lay in the hands of her king.

She made a move to get off the bed, but his arms tightened around her. "Wait..." His voice, high and choked, broke on the word. He pressed his face against her shoulder and took a deep breath before trying to continue. "Please... wait."

He couldn't seem to make his throat work. All he knew was that he didn't want to leave the protective circle of her arms. Not yet. This pure and holy vision was all that kept the demons at bay. A name came to him suddenly… _Éowyn…_ He gave a couple of weak coughs, his breath still shuddering from his tears.

His wife gave him an understanding squeeze, and held him a little longer, rubbing her hand gently on his back. She felt it as he leaned into her, and felt his vulnerability and his need for the comfort and compassion that he had been without for so long.

_I have not given him that, _she thought. _I have not pressed him to speak of his grief, have not offered him the support and comfort it seems he did indeed desire. _Her heart broke.

When she felt he was ready, she pulled away, taking his hot face in her hand. His eyes were half-closed, lids heavy with fever and exhaustion. He leaned into her touch. "I shall return," she said reassuringly. He nodded, and let her go.

Faramir leaned back against the headboard, still shivering slightly. Some dim portion of his mind could hear her pouring cool water into cup and bowl, but all it registered was that she was no longer near him. He could feel the grief rising in a great tide up from his throat, threatening to drown him in its wave...

"Éowyn?" he called hoarsely, a note of desperation in his voice.

Almost immediately, he started coughing. And he couldn't seem to stop.

She heard the gurgling sound come from his throat, and snatched a cloth from the table, holding it to her husband's lips. The ill man closed his eyes, feeling the burn of phlegm as it passed through his lacerated throat to be expelled harshly into the cloth, a staggering sear of fire in his lungs. Like a whirlwind it passed--intense torture for a brief time, followed by the concentrated ease of departure. With a sob of relief, Faramir turned his head, sucking in a ragged breath. He felt the reassuring stroke of firm fingers in the sweaty knot of his hair, the touch of cool lips against his temple.

The rim of a cup was pressed to his lips, and he drank the cool liquid gratefully, though it stung his ravaged throat.

"Lie back," she coaxed, barely retaining control over her pounding heart, her crippling fear.

"I dreamt," he panted, his weak voice but a rasping skeleton of its usual timbre, "I dreamt of… of father… Boromir…"

Her lord's eyes slipped closed, as he fell into another restless sleep, his dark lashes glistening with unshed tears.

Through Faramir's delirious ramblings, she had pieced together some impressions of her husband's severe life in the White Tower. It was nothing like her own childhood in Rohan, for even though she had experienced sorrow and death, she had never had someone so completely determined to break her spirit. Wormtongue had striven to poison it, to turn it to his own filthy ends. But she had recognized him for the enemy he was; no one of her kin who claimed to love her had ever ground her down with relentless disapproval and blame.

It hit her then, that there was a question she wanted to ask - not of him, but of someone – anyone – who could possibly answer, one that had been bothering her, teasing at the back of her thoughts while she had comforted her husband. Something that had always bothered her, but that she hadn't had the words for until now…

_He has never seemed to wonder why. Simply, why? Why he was never good enough, why he had to suffer... what he did, to deserve his life... _Thinking back, she realized that when she would thank him for some small kindness, or would compliment him in some small way, his lips would curve in a sheepish smile. And she knew now that he was hearing his father's voice in his head criticizing his every action, believing his hateful words. His desperate need for approval was at once endearing and heartbreaking. _He has just accepted it as his due... as if it's what he deserves, as if it's just the way things are..._

Éowyn would not be content to believe that it was simply meant to be, that the innocent man in her arms, who had always tried to follow a good path, to do the right thing, deserved to suffer, that it was some sort of fate, or destiny...

_Oh, why are things the way they are?_ she asked of the deepening dark. _Why can they be so beautiful, and yet so cruel? _


	8. Chapter 8

_He's going to get better soon – I promise! The cavalry to the rescue…_

_I don't understand why the formatting suddenly went haywire in this chapter. I am trying to figure out how to fix it… if anyone has any ideas (other than the double spacing for each paragraph – which I have tried and didn't seem to work) drop me a line and let me know!_

XXXX

After hours of tending her lord, she had collapsed by his side on the bed, her head pillowed on her arm. Her hand clasped his hot, limp one so that he would know that she was near, that he was not alone…

A noise tugged at the edge of her subconscious. She came awake with a start.  
_Faramir!  
_  
Her bleary eyes went immediately to the bed, fear knotting her stomach. _Please! Tell me not that he has passed while I lay oblivious at his side!_

But no, her husband still breathed, shallow and weak, his limp black hair standing in stark contrast to his pale skin and white sheets. _He is so very still! _So much so that if not for the gentle rise and fall of the most recent poultice on his chest she would not have known he yet lived. 

A sound at the door caused her to lift her eyes, and a choked sob burst forth to see Lord Aragorn sweep into the room, with the Lady Arwen close behind.

The King's gaze took in the scene before him: Éowyn's disheveled appearance, Faramir's lifeless form. He went first to his Steward, laying one calloused hand on the hot cheek, another on the pallid neck. The Elven lady came to Éowyn's side, slipping strong arms around her shaking shoulders and drawing her away from the bed.

"No!" the Rohirrim woman cried, throwing her arm out, fingers extended toward where her husband lay fighting for his life. "Please! I must stay with him!"

Aragorn leapt into action, lighting more candles and drawing several pouches of herbs from his pack. "How long has he been ill?" he barked.

Éowyn flinched at his tone, but did not hesitate to reply, "He… he returned yesternight, my lord… four marks after dusk. Weary only, he claimed, though seemingly with a bad cold…"

A servant appeared in the doorway, bearing the packs from the king and queen's horses. The four barely acknowledged as he set them down, then bowed before taking his leave.

"He did not tell you how long?" Aragorn pressed her, crushing several herbs into a bowl.

The Lady huffed, "You know your Steward as well as I, my lord. If there is something he wishes to keep hidden," her voice dropped, tears falling freely. "It will not be found."

Aragorn snorted. "Hidden until he collapses with illness and strain." He stopped long enough to lay his hand again on the other man's brow and blew and anxious breath. "Oh my friend," his eyes were soft. "Why care you so little for your own health?"

Faramir's glazed eyes fluttered open at his touch, his vision seeing the room in a wash of orange and red.

_Flames… burning ribbons licking at his flesh…  
_  
_"Fire_?" Faramir took a stabbing breath to rasp, reaching out his fumbling hand.

Aragorn took it, seeming to sense his distress, the conflicting emotions clashing with brutal force inside of him. "Do not think of the past, Faramir... you do not have to remember it now... be at ease... just stop fighting and let yourself rest... you are safe..."

Faramir's grip tightened, fear rising within his breast. Looking up into the older man's eyes, though, left no room for doubt. No one had ever looked at him that way: the power, the absolute strength and protective affection radiating from those eyes was unmistakable. That strength had called him forth once before; he would trust it now.

The Captain moaned involuntarily. He squeezed his burning eyes closed as if to will the spinning of the room to stop, certain that he could not feel any worse. Aragorn's hand disappeared momentarily, but he quickly returned, a bowl of cool water and a washcloth in his hands. The gentle healer reached over the sick man, folding down the blanket and quilts on his bed, tucking them around his waist. He dipped the white cloth in the water, wringing it just enough so that it wouldn't drip before tenderly folding and placing it across the Lord Steward's heated brow.

Faramir drew a shallow gasp of air as he felt it. The sudden change of temperature shocked his system, sending his body into convulsive shivers. "S' c-cold..." he whispered.

Alarm flickered across Éowyn's face at his statement. Aragorn leaned over his friend, placing a hand gently on the shaking shoulder.

"Faramir?" Aragorn called. His Steward struggled to open his grey eyes, to respond to the summons of his king. "Can you hear me? How do you fare?"

The Lord of Ithilien took stock. His throat was dry and stinging, his eyes feeling like he'd been staring into the sun for hours. His chest was heavy, as if with enormous weight, each weak breath an agonizingly painful struggle against seemingly immense odds. Swallowing thickly, he rolled his eyes. "…hard to… breathe…" he managed before falling once again into unconsciousness.

"I know," the older man murmured, his mouth setting in a thin line. The High King reached out his hand to smooth the unruly hair back from his Steward's heated skin, not missing the slight sigh that came from the figure slumped against the pillows.

Éowyn's blue eyes pleaded with her liege, her body straining against the queen's strong embrace. She watched as Aragorn drew forth herbs, strange and magnificent, from his pouches, steeping some in another healing tea and crushing others into a paste to make a plaster for Faramir's chest. The relief she felt at her king's arrival was tempered with the fear that he would have come too late, that now nothing could keep Faramir from death.

Feeling her gaze burning on him, Aragorn murmured, "Arwen, take her to her rest." Éowyn's mouth opened to protest, but he continued, turning his serious eyes to regard her haggard features. "I trust she has not slept this night, nor for some nights previous. Is it not so, Lady?"

The shieldmaiden's mouth closed, surprise at his acumen once again catching her off guard. She nodded, feeling suddenly weak. How could he have known that she had lain awake for nearly a week, impatient to have her husband home, wondering where he was, how he fared, and what his homecoming would bring.

"Do not fear," Arwen's voice came soothing and low in her ear. "We will not allow him to succumb."

The dark haired elf led the fair haired woman from the room, offering her strong arm when Éowyn stumbled. A spare room was prepared, fire stoked, quilts turned down, and the Lady of the Mark settled in the soft bed. Her exhaustion and grief overwhelmed her, and she welcomed Arwen's strong arms as she collapsed, and wept.

In the meantime, Aragorn had managed to get a cup of herbal tea past Faramir's pallid lips, as well as a cup of water. The Dúnedain lord knew that the keys to lung fever were to keep the patient warm and well hydrated, to thin the congestion in his chest, and to help him to cough as much as possible.

The Prince of Ithilien had been well cared for by his Lady – he was kept warm, and had already been given some herbs to reduce his fever. In truth, the situation was not as dire as he had feared, though it was still very grave. There were some herbs he had from Elrond that would – should – turn the tide.

His callused fingers smeared the plaster over Faramir's neck and chest. When finished, he wiped his hands and sighed. This particular plaster was activated by heat, and Elbereth knows his Steward had heat to spare.

Standing, the former Ranger of the North sighed again, gathering the various cloths, cups, and bowls strewn about the room. When Faramir next awoke, he would need to take sustenance, and so the High King of Gondor went to make him some broth.

XXXX

_Footsteps_.

Faramir struggled to pull himself out of the darkness, to hear what was going on, who was nearby. What time was it? What was he doing still in bed? He flicked his eyes to look out the window, to gauge what time it was. Late afternoon by the angle of the sun through the clouds. Rain continued to fall, signaling only a brief respite from the thundering storm.

_Footsteps_...

_Afternoon!_ Father would be furious! Late afternoon and he was still abed!

Boromir did not wake him… he must be away. Father always waited to see how long it took him to realize how much trouble he was in. Waited sometimes standing over the bed for him to open his eyes...

_Footsteps... _

_I must rise!... Why am I yet so weary?... He is coming in the door! _

XXXX

It had taken nearly a full mark to prepare the nourishing broth, mostly because the household servants were so agog at the nearness of the High King that they fain fell over themselves to be helpful. _Too helpful,_ Aragorn grimaced. When Arwen had assured him that Éowyn was indeed asleep, and that she would deliver the broth once it was ready, Aragorn had returned to the sickroom.

The first sight that greeted him was the empty bed. The king briefly wondered where his Steward thought he was getting to, sick as he was. It only took a second to see him, barely on his feet and leaning heavily with his shoulder against the wall, his back to the door. The older man thought perhaps Faramir was delirious, or confused, or too hot, and so he went to help him get back into bed.

_Footsteps..._

He'd only gone a few paces when Faramir hissed, low and as if to himself: "Do not you touch me! Touch me again and I shall strike you! I am no weakling child! Touch me and, Steward of Gondor or no, I swear I will strike you down..." His weak voice held a desperate threat, his face pinched and hard. The ill man struggled to stand upright, his body refusing to obey. He wasn't even looking at his king.

"Faramir..." Aragorn's heart nearly stopped.

"I shall be down in a moment, Father," the Steward's voice rang suddenly clear, with barely a hint of his illness. "I shall dress and join you shortly on the grounds."

Aragorn took one more step and the Prince pulled himself up straighter, pressing against the stone wall with his hands, trying to project a strength that was belied by his arms that were shaking with the effort of supporting his body. _I had thought him too weak to be a danger to himself. I should never have left him alone!…_

The older man stilled his movements. He didn't want to frighten the ill man any more than he already was. He also didn't want to leave him - couldn't leave him - shaking in a linen night shirt, trapped in an old fear. So, while Faramir might think Aragorn meant him ill, the king knew that he did not. He pulled a quilt off the bed and approached his friend again.

"Don't - don't -" Faramir whispered to himself, tense, on edge. His breath whistled ominously in his chest as he fought for air. "Please..."

When he got close enough, Aragorn draped quilt up around Faramir's shoulders. "Come, my friend. It is only I, Aragorn. You will come to no harm..." He hoped his soft words would break through the fever. "You are safe, you are in your home in Ithilien with your lady wife... come, you are shivering. We must keep you warm…" It wasn't physically hard to draw Faramir up enough to wrap his tense body in the quilt.

"My leige?"

Aragorn let out a sigh of relief. He sat back to get a look at his trembling patient. "How do you fare, mellon nin?" Faramir's eyes were frighteningly glassy, his cheeks deeply flushed with his fever.

"Wh-where is…?" He barked a few rattling coughs.

"I know not what you..." The king's eyes narrowed with confusion.

The Lord of Ithilien looked around the area between the wall and the bed. "Where am I?" He finished, innocently, as though he hadn't heard Aragorn's reply.

_Does he not recognize his home, his bed? _"I think you dreamt, my friend...your fever is high," Aragorn replied vaguely.

"I am ill," Faramir stated, though it almost sounded like a question.

"Yes, you are ill. Come back to bed…"

"He would have hauled me over the coals," Faramir muttered, eyes wide and dark with memory. "I did not attend my lessons, and if he caught me he would have… was going to…" his pale brow furrowed, his eyes closing as his fevered brain whisked the thoughts away. _There was something… something about Father… why couldn't he remember? _"Nay… he is not… could not be…" his said aloud, but his voice trailed off, coughing fiercely.

"Your father," Aragorn stated, wincing at the sound of those ragged coughs. He did not need to ask; years before he had visited the White City, and could easily envision how Denethor might have condemned his second son for any show of weakness. "Come back into bed and close your eyes. You are safe here."

"No - I have no wish to sleep!" Just the thought of it brought dread to Faramir's eyes. "They are there when I close my eyes. Everyone I have ever loved and killed – Father, Boromir…" he had to stop again, his breath gone. His body slowly slid to the floor, his legs refusing to hold him up. Aragorn kept his hands on the younger man's arms as he fell, keeping him from dropping too suddenly. 

"They – they are waiting for me to be dead as, as well so…" the wheezing in his chest grew frightfully loud, and yet he continued, "so that they can drag me off beyond the circles of the world with them!…" His voice grew thick, diminishing to barely a whisper. "Please, do not make me sleep – please…"

"Shh," Aragorn soothed, kneeling and placing strong hands on the fevered neck, reaching out his energy to try to slow Faramir's breathing so the other man did not pass out. _Surely he does not believe himself responsible for those deaths! _"You will not die of this, Faramir, I promise. I am here. You do not have to go back to sleep..." Aragorn did not know what precisely, but something in Faramir's fevered dreams disturbed the younger man deeply. "Do you wish to remain here?... no, no, keep that blanket around you… and we will both sit here for a time?"

"I do not wish to sleep..." Faramir insisted again, closing his eyes as illness, exhaustion, and fear took their toll.

"No, you do not have to sleep." Aragorn turned so that he was sitting on the floor next to Faramir, with his back against the wall. Suddenly he noticed that Arwen was standing in the door, had heard Faramir's fearful pleas, her eyes dark with sorrow. Aragorn nodded to her that he had the situation under control, and she silently withdrew. "We shall sit here," the king murmured, low and soothing. "You do not even have to close your eyes. We shall simply sit together as companions, you and I." Aragorn knew that Faramir was very weak, would not long be able to hold out against his body, and would soon succumb to his exhaustion. He also knew that Arwen was waiting just outside the door, and would come swiftly if there was any need. "Agreed?"

Faramir nodded. "Agreed..." he whispered, though he sounded suspicious.

"Then it is a bargain." The older man slowly and gently slipped his arm around Faramir's sweat-damp shoulders. He felt a shiver pass through his Steward. "Why do you not lean against me? So you do not have to lean against the wall. It shall keep you warmer..." That thought persuaded Faramir more than any other. "And we shall merely sit, all right?" The ill man nodded once and shifted slightly so that he leaned against his king, keeping the quilt tucked around him.

The room was quiet and dimly illuminated with the sunlight that found its way through the rain clouds. The forest sounds were muffled. The only real sound in the house was the harshness of Faramir's breathing – punctuated by grating coughs – and the way it caught every once in a while as he tried to shake himself out of falling asleep.

"Faramir?" Aragorn asked at the sound. "How do you fare?"

"I… I do not wish to sleep..." The Man pulled himself up straighter, drawing a shaky breath.

"I mean, sitting like this? You are comfortable?"

"My back pains me," he admitted wearily. If he didn't feel so sickly and about to die, he'd be embarrassed to admit such discomfort. "Evr'thinn hurtss." His voice was slightly slurred, shaky, and hoarse. "I… I c'nnot seem- seem to f-f-f…find… a place to- to be wh're t'all d…does not… hhh-hurt…"

"Here..." _He isn't going to last much longer_, Aragorn told himself. _Valar, but he can barely breathe! Perhaps I can coax him just a little… _"Mayhap if you just turned a little more and lay yourself across me...you are holding on so stiff just to stay upright, it is no wonder everything hurts...I will not let you fall...here..."

Aragorn put his left arm around Farmir and gently guided him to lie back until he was tucked across the king's chest, head resting in the crook of the king's right arm. Faramir was about to say how foolish he felt, a grown man needing any kind of help and comfort - but all that came out was an unreserved sigh as his overburdened muscles finally relaxed into the support. He was dead asleep in a heartbeat.

Aragorn was pleased with himself that his plan worked so quickly on someone so unwilling. He adjusted the quilt that did not need adjusting, and settled himself back for what he hoped for Faramir would be a long sleep.


	9. Chapter 9

_At last, the next chapter. But the story's not over… the muse keeps calling…_

XXXX

Éowyn awoke to darkness, wondering briefly where she was. The view from the window told her it was night, though just barely, the absence of stars and the brightness of the sky near the horizon stating that it was a mark or so past dusk.

She bolted upright with a cry. _Faramir! _

She was a wretched wife! It was the second time she had fallen asleep when he was so desperately ill, and fear gripped her at the thought that he might not have survived the day, and no one had the heart to inform her of it!

Crawling out of bed, she felt her way to the door and opened it, eyes squinting in the sudden light from the common room.

Arwen looked up from where she stood, leaning outside the doorway to the couple's bedchamber. "Éowyn," she murmured, crossing the room in long strides to take the younger woman by the shoulders. "Did you find sleep?"

"Yes," the Lady of Ithilien replied, voice low. "I had need of rest. Thank you." Her anxious gaze was drawn to the door across from them. "How does he fare? Please, tell me he yet lives!"

Arwen's elegant head dipped. "He is resting," she replied vaguely, squeezing the white-clad shoulders. "After you have eaten, you shall go to him." Her willowy arms steered the fair lady towards the table, where a hunk of bread, some cold meats, and a bottle of wine stood ready. From the scents in the air, there was a soup on the fire, as well.

In spite of herself, Éowyn's stomach rumbled loudly in response. Her blue eyes went wide, embarrassed to have disgraced herself thus before the queen! Arwen simply chuckled, pouring wine into a goblet and turning to fetch a bowl of soup from the fire.

The elven lady contemplated her mortal companion. The fair skin had regained some of its color after her rest, and her eyes were slightly less shadowed. But Arwen's mind was still uneasy. There was something the queen had not told her husband… but perhaps it would not be necessary. The poor men in the other room – both fighting for a life – could do with as little distraction as possible.

After two helpings of soup, a slice of bread with meat, and some wine, the White Lady sighed and sat back, sated. The High Queen had sat beside her in silence, neither pressing for conversation nor withholding it, merely enjoying a quiet companionship. But now that hunger had been assuaged, her weariness banished, Éowyn turned hard eyes to the queen. "I will not be kept from him," she said, her face a mask of stone.

Arwen's azure eyes softened, the wisdom of her long years on Middle Earth tempering her amusement. "Nor shall you be," the elf answered, rising and crossing to stand behind the Lady of Ithilien. Her long hands began to tame the tangles in the golden hair, and a sigh escaped the woman before she could help herself.

Once her mane was tamed, the horsewoman thanked her friend, and then rose and crossed to their bedchamber, fear gripping wrapping its cold fingers about her heart. She stopped just shy of the doorway, taking a deep breath to steel herself against what she might find, then stepped gingerly into the room.

What she saw did not cheer her heart: her husband lay on the pillows still as death, his skin a tombstone gray, lips blue. Aragorn sat in the chair by his side, a hand on the silent shoulder, whispering things unintelligible with closed eyes. At her half-stifled gasp, he slowly raised his head, gazing at her with sorrow in his eyes.

"My lord?" she whispered, barely daring to hope. She longed to go to her husband's side, but fear held her back. Fear that she would find him gone, never to return…

"He yet lives," came the king's growling reply. "But he grows so weak," A royal hand ran over his face. After two marks of somewhat restful sleep in Aragorn's arms, Faramir had gone suddenly limp, and nothing the king had said or done had been able to rouse him. He had carried the Steward to the bed, folding another blanket over him so that he did not become chilled, and tried to speak to his patient deep within his spirit, to no avail. He whispered into his hands, almost unto himself, "He takes no nourishment, sips but little water, and has now slipped beyond where I can reach him!" His heart was pained to see her eyes grief-stricken, and gathered himself. "Do not despair, lady," he rose, crossing to her and taking her shoulders. "While there is life in him, we shall not admit defeat!"

Her blue eyes scoured his face and asked, desperate and low, "You called him back from death once before," she was pleading, but she cared not. "Called him, they say, with naught but a leaf and a word! Can you not do so again?"

Aragorn's shoulders slumped dejectedly, expelling a harsh breath. "Nay, lady," he admitted, heartsick. "This is a different malady. It is a sickness of the body, not of the spirit, and all the athelas in the world will not secure him." His voice dropped. "His strength is failing."

"What is the chief concern at this moment, Estel?" Arwen's voice floated from the bed. They both jumped. _Startled yet again!_ Aragorn cursed himself. Never mind that half his wife's blood was infused with ethereal power, he knew that the past year of royal treatment had dulled his once-sharp Ranger's senses. He turned to see the regal lady perched on its edge at the Steward's side, a hand to his brow, she continued. "His body burns, there is the weakness of his breath, and also the lack of nourishment to give him strength. While each are perilous, which of these is the greater danger?"

This seemed to shake Aragorn from his dark thoughts, and he released Éowyn's shoulders, turning once more to his Steward, laying a hand to find the pulse at his neck.

"The fever can wane, his breath I can help with plasters and poultices, but all will come to naught if the strength of his body fails…" He trailed off, a light seeming to come into his eyes. "Of course!" He rushed from the room without so much as a 'by your leave,' the two women staring at his retreating back.

The Lady of Ithilien whipped her golden head around to the queen, who merely shook her head in reply. Éowyn softly approached the sickbed, easing herself down opposite Arwen, with Faramir between them. Tears fell to see him there, as if a corpse, his breath whistling weakly with each inhalation, and she took his hand up gently, laying its icy fingers to her warm cheek.

"His hands are cold," she spoke softly, not knowing why she said it except for the inexplicable need to hear a voice aloud in the pressing silence.

Arwen's eyes closed briefly, then opened once more to gaze at Faramir's still face. "It is his heart," she toned, her voice like velvet in the dark. "It is drawing all warmth unto itself. It has not the strength now to spend upon his hands…"

_Oh, my husband! _"Then mine shall answer!" Éowyn countered fervently, closing the calloused hand in both of hers and drawing it to her breast. "My heart shall gladly give the warmth he cannot make!" Her voice softened, her spirit pained with the memory, "For t'was his heart that first melted mine, his heart that taught mine how to heat a soul made cold with fear." She dipped her head to brush soft lips against his knuckles. "My strength shall rise to serve him now… now that he is the one in need," she finished in a sorrowful whisper, blowing hot breath against his skin and silently bidding his blood to move, his heart to strengthen its tired beat.

They sat in silence, the mortal woman's thoughts all muddled. She contemplated her husband, herself, and seated near her Aragorn's chosen wife, marveling not that he had chosen her – for that was revealed long ago, and no longer of any significance – but simply in awe of her immortal heritage, her ethereal beauty, and the power that seemed to radiate from her very being.

After a time she saw the queen's eyes close once more, her body growing stiff as if turning to stone. The White Lady raised her face to look upon this, her brow creasing. She seemed to feel the other's spirit moving away, the Elf's hand resting on Faramir's brow. Thus they sat for what seemed like ages, neither moving nor speaking.

Aragorn returned with a cup in his hands, looking down on it as if it were a precious thing he was afraid would somehow slip through his fingers. Upon reaching the bed, he lifted his eyes and took in the scene before him. He stopped short.

"How long has she been thus?" he asked, his voice low and urgent.

"I – I do not know, my lord," Éowyn stammered, a flush rising in her ivory cheeks. She still clutched Faramir's hand to her breast, unawares. "A quarter mark, perhaps a little more. Why? What is amiss?" the Steward's wife asked, a new branch of fear sundering her heart. "What is she – "

"Shh!" Aragorn interrupted. The king gently placed the cup on the night table, turning to his wife with a worrisome expression. "We must not speak," he all but mouthed, his eyes fixed upon his lady wife, burning bright in the golden glow of the candles. Éowyn had never seen the king so unsettled! "She is deep within his spirit, feeding him with her fëa, her strength. We must not disturb her, or make any untoward sounds or movements to startle her. If she is torn away before she is ready, it could bring great harm both to herself and to Faramir!"

And so the sat frozen, and waited, hardly daring to breathe, watching the high-born Elven lady. Éowyn silently regarded the queen and king. _Tis so strange, _she thought. _How two such as they ever came to be together… How he watches her! Such love, such devotion… I wonder if Faramir looks at me thus when I am unaware… _

After nearly half a mark, Arwen gave a small shudder, opening her eyes wide as if awakening from a vivid dream.

"Meleth nîn!" the king's distressed cry, moving to fold her in a desperate embrace. Her graceful arms came about him, and they held each other several long moments before he whispered, "You risk too much!"

She pulled back to look into his eyes, smoothing his hair back from his face with a slender hand. "Is it too much, my lord, when your servant and friend lies in need? One who kept the White City safe for you in hours most dire?" came the refined reply. "And what of this valiant lady, who has rendered great service to your kingdom and brought honor and peace to our lands?" Éowyn lowered her eyes, feeling as if she were witnessing a private thing. Arwen lifted her husband's chin, pouring love from her eyes. "Do they not deserve our same happiness?"

The former ranger leaned down. "Aye," he whispered, brushing a devoted, lingering kiss to her lips. "But what would your adar say, to see you spend yourself heedless of the danger?"

"Why, he would speak much the same as you, mela en coiamin," amusement colored her expression. "And yet he would have done the same himself, heedless. As would another rash healer I know…" She kissed his cheek. "Would you learn what my pursuit has yielded?"

Aragorn's eyes widened in surprise. "You were able to reach his mind?" he asked, anxiously. "I did not think…"

"I have given him some measure of strength, but he resists my touch." She paused. The queen moved away a little, standing by the window and looking out at the cloud-covered moon. "You thought that because I did not join my father in his healing that I do not have his gift," she spoke, no reproach in her voice. "It is a reasonable assumption. In truth I studied many years at his side, along with my brothers. My father had great hopes for me. But…" She lowered her dark head. They both became still, quietly regarding her. "I made a mistake..."

Then, Faramir's head moved a fraction of an inch on the pillow, and Éowyn let out a surprised, hopeful cry. Both royals closed in on the bed.

Instantly, Aragorn moved to the cup. "Quick! We must get him to drink this down, if he can," he lifted the Captain's head, pressing the cup to the slack lips. A little dribbled down the ill man's chin, and a scent wafted into the air.

"That cannot be miruvor!" Arwen's eyes widened in hope.

"Nay," Aragorn replied, grimacing. "It is a similar potion known among the Dúnedain. It shall bring him strength, but not restore him as the Elvish elixir would do. Faramir!" he called. "Brother, you must drink this..." There was no response. "Lady," he addressed the Steward's wife. "Speak to him. Coax him to swallow this draught."

Still clutching his hand, Éowyn began to whisper to her lord, soft and low into his ear. "My love, please, you must drink. It will aide you. Faramir, it is I, Éowyn, your wife…" her voice broke on the word. "Please, dearest of my heart, you must drink!"

Whether it was his wife's sweet persuasion or his king's strong hands, Faramir's long throat moved until he managed to swallow most of the cup. But he did not open his eyes, nor did he give any other sign that he heard their pleas.

When it was clear that he would take no more, all three companions leaned back with a collective sigh. A small victory, and yet a vital one. "This tincture will strengthen his body, for a time," Aragorn murmured. "Another plaster will help to further loosen the fluid in his chest, and the cold rain water will help to lessen his fever…" his voice died away. Would it be enough? It was all they had.

"The crisis will come tonight," Arwen toned, her voice strange, as if imbued with an enigmatic power. Both of them turned to face her. "He has entered the White Maze."

Aragorn's eyes leapt to his wife's face, his expression unreadable.

"The White Maze?" Éowyn repeated, her confusion evident. She searched her memory, trying to recall if she had ever heard of such a thing…

A flicker of fear flitted across both the king and queen's shadowed faces. "The White Maze," Aragorn began slowly, "is a place between the two worlds, a place where those whose body is giving up but whose mind continues to fight go to wage a last desperate battle for the soul."

There was a brief silence. "I – I do not understand," the shieldmaiden stammered.

"It is the fever," Arwen explained. "In those who suffer grave illness, the White Maze is a gateway to death. His fever has burned in him for more than two days without dropping in the smallest degree," she laid her hand once more on the Lord of Ithilien's fiery brow. "His body's lack of breath and lack of strength combine to sunder his spirit from him. But he resists! He fights to remain with us, and as long as that fight continues, there is still hope."

"Is there?" the Lady of the Mark pressed. "Truly? Please do not seek to spare me with false hope."

"If his mind can remain with us, if we can further strengthen his body, then there is a chance," the king replied slowly, as if reluctant.

"Then some return from this White Maze," Éowyn sighed in relief.

The king and queen exchanged a dark look. "There…" the northern ranger began, then broke off. He swallowed, and then continued. "There has not been one known to return since the time of Lúthien."

Éowyn's heart plummeted. She made a choking sound in her throat, pain piercing her through as acutely as a wraith's envenomed blade.

Arwen's hand reached out to clasp the Rohirrim's in a firm grip. She threw a piercing look to her husband, and then whispered fervently, "I will aide him in this fight!" her face alight with passion. "I awoke from a dream in the palace, when first we received your message. In that dream I stood upon a cliff, darkness at my feet. I knew that I would be the one to walk with him on this perilous road."

Aragorn stood abruptly, a look of horror on his face, all color draining from it, before turning to stride swiftly from the room.

Éowyn looked after him with trepidation, the whites of her wide eyes shimmering with unshed tears.

"Stay and speak to your husband. Let him know that he is not alone, that you await him in this life. Do not fear," the queen reassuringly squeezed the younger Woman's hand once more, before rising to follow her husband. "We shall soon return."

_A/N – Okay, so while I am pretty proud of myself for my research into the healing qualities of Elves, I am sure someone is going to write to me that I got something wrong… which is great! Please do! I will amend any mistakes asap. I did make up the role Arwen plays, and the part about the White Maze. Complete fiction. (As if Tolkien isn't fiction…) However, Tolkien never attributed any healing to Arwen in his works. (That I know of.) But I did find in the research that female elves often did not go to war because it interfered with their healing powers. Since we never see Arwen in battle, does it not follow that she might possess some power and skill? Especially since Elrond taught all his sons, even his foster son… so why not his daughter? The forthcoming back-story about why we've never before seen her heal will be my invention also._


	10. Chapter 10

Arwen glanced behind her as she shut the door, ensuring that they were out of the lady of the house's hearing. Éowyn lay by Faramir's side, her body stretched along the length of him, his hand still fast within her grip. Gold hair splayed the pillows, and she used her free hand to gently stroke his hair, his brow, murmuring in his ear things too soft and low to be understood.

Lord Aragorn stood bent at a window near the front door, hands grasping the sill, head hanging. His shoulders were tense.

"You know there is no other way," the queen spoke, crossing to him. She reached out to lay a slim hand upon him, but he turned his head away, and she let it hover, suspended in the air.

"I know that way is treacherous," he seethed, barely containing his fear. "Only once have I seen a man taken unto the Maze, and once he crossed into it, he died swiftly… and without pain." He turned to look at her now, unabashed tears standing in his eyes, tears he would not let fall. "That time I also saw a healer try to draw him back. That healer died, as well, but not without pain. He screamed in agony as his soul was ripped from him, and two bloody tears fell from his eyes."

Lady Arwen broke her silence with her soft declaration. "She is with child."

His eyes widened, the quiet words stopping his breath. "You are certain?" he whispered, incredulous. Once he would have welcomed this news: it would mean their arranged marriage was not the bitter, loveless thing he feared it would become. Now, it brought only despair.

"Yes," she answered bitterly. "When first we arrived and I laid my hands to her shoulders, I felt it. A son. She does not know, will not know for some weeks yet."

This was too much. To think he might lose his Steward would be one thing, to have to explain to Rohan how their valiant lady died of grief might be another… but to face a woman's eyes still darkened with grief and to know she must face raising her beloved's child bereft of his father…

But he saw in his mind's eye a vision of his own future: laying his wife in a tomb with all the ceremonies of state, facing the long years of his life alone.

In a flash he turned, clasping her arms just above the elbows, his gaze penetrating. "Arwen," he demanded. "Do you know what it is you risk with this madness?"

For a moment a look fleeted across her face, like a runaway horse, its hooves pounding in their ears. _Did she know?_

Aye. She knew.

In that moment memory had stood naked in her eyes, and he saw it. He dropped his head, touching his brow to hers. "I cannot lose you," he choked, a tear escaping despite himself, voice refusing to rise above a desolate whisper. When he had left her in Rivendell, going to what he was certain was his doom and the end of the world, he could rest in the knowledge that she would go into the west and be safe. Now, despite all that might have befallen them, they had found happiness and peace. To have her torn from him… She loosed one arm from his grasp, bringing it to his damp cheek.

"**_Ava estel arfanyaras, hon-maren. Engamme artaher. Ava ufarea queluvamme!"_** She whispered, caressing his face with a loving hand. _(Do not lose hope, my heart. You and I can save this noble lord. We shall not fail!) _

"**_Ai, melda. Andelu i ven. Nuruhuine artaher enyare. Cometta na ettuler yeva."_** _(Ah, beloved. The road is very dangerous. This day the death-shadow looms on him. His end is close.)_

Her eyes searched his, her voice sweet, and full of faith as she laid a hand to his chest. _**"Ae u-esteliach nad, estelio han, estelio ammen. Ye oio estel." **(If you trust nothing else, trust this, trust us. There is always hope.)_

Aragorn's heart sank. She would not be swayed in this, he knew, and knew also that he would not allow her to travel the Ninque Malle alone. _(the White Road)_ They embraced, his fierce and anxious, hers firm and reassuring, each trying to impress upon the other the urgency of their mission. Arwen knew his thoughts, as she always had, and welcomed his strength.

In truth she was not as composed as she seemed. The weight of her past fell upon her heavily, a millstone around her neck. Images came unbidden: a child's face, still and pale, a mother's grief-stricken cry…

They stood together for a time, each gathering strength from the other. When their spirits had recovered, they parted, reassuring each other with their eyes, and clasped hands. Thus united, they strode forth to face the shadows.

XXXX

Éowyn still rested near her lord, tears cutting deep furrows down her ivory cheeks. Faramir looked awful. Dark circles ringed his eyes, and his skin had the color of cold ashes. His high cheekbones jutted out in sharp relief over the sunken hollows of his cheeks, and his lips were dry and cracked. Even his hair had lost its sheen, the once-shiny wealth of black locks now falling about his face in dull, lank strands that gave further testimony to the totality of his illness.

She had poured her heart out to him in this brief interval, whispering tender words of love and devotion, striving to reach him, his spirit far removed. She had murmured to him for nigh on half a mark, and yet had received not the slightest hint of his having heard her heartfelt pleas. She begged him to throw off this fetter of illness, to gird his strength and rise to her imploring words.

But he lay there still, burning with his fever and toiling for breath, silent and insensible. Her tears fell uncounted, her prayers unrequited.

The king and queen returned, mouths grim. Locking the door behind them, they had given explicit instructions to the servants that they were not to be disturbed. Their hands were clasped, presenting a united front as they marched to battle. Exchanging a brief look, the royal healers broke ranks to surround the couple on the bed.

"What are you going to do?" Eowyn asked with the high voice of a child, unease shining in her wide eyes.

Arwen smoothed the fair hair back from the lady's face. "Estel and I together will attempt to draw him back." Her eyes were grave, her mind struggling not to give in to her needling doubt and despair. "The road we walk is filled with peril, and you must know that there is a chance we will not be able to reach him in time."

The White Lady looked from one face to another, the power emanating from their majesties' combined wills heartening her spirit. But there was a hardness to Aragorn's eyes, and suddenly his forceful reaction to Arwen's previous attempt came to her mind.

"This endeavor is perilous for more than just my husband, is it not?" she asked, voice low.

"It is." The king's reply was terse, his teeth biting the words short. "Three lives will be at risk."

Sorrow and hope crossed swords in her heart as a realization hit her, full force. "And what shall I do, my liege," she ground out, beginning to shake with anger as it coursed through her overwrought mind. "Shall I simply sit, waiting once again as others ride forth to battle leaving me behind?" Her blue eyes turned to ice, piercing both of their astonished faces. Could they not see how it would go? Had they truly not considered what impossibly thing they unknowingly expected of her? She looked at them and waited, but heavy silence met her query.

It seemed not, and so she would inform them, her voice rising. "Will it fall to me not only to inform Gondor that her Steward has fallen while under my care, but also inexplicably their queen and their new-crowned king!" Tears fell, and she hated that she had cried so much, and with so little to show for it. "I will not stand idly by!"

Arwen turned to her lord, murmuring over her shoulder, her voice penitent. "She is right."

They had not considered that should their quest fail Éowyn would undoubtedly take the fall. A vision came to the queen's mind, a flash of the future: Éowyn's bruised and bloody face, her broken body dragged through the streets of Minas Tirith; Rohan's army marching on Gondor to take restitution for her violent death… She opened her spirit to her husband, silently passing the image to him, and saw him pale at it.

"If he should die…" The fair-haired lady began, lowering her gaze to her husband, and then a shuddering breath broke through her throat. "I would not be parted from him," she finished. "Is there no way for me to join you?" Éowyn beseeched, taking the queen's hand in a crushing grip.

There was a moment's hesitation, and then the queen nodded her dark head, her lips blood red in her pale face. "I will take you," she agreed, and the Lady of the Mark gave a grateful cry.

"No!" Aragorn's voice cut the air, his hand slicing a downward stroke to emphasize his refusal. "Tis enough that we will travel this vaporous path, Arwen, but I will not allow more risk to your soul than we must!"

"We cannot leave her behind," came Evenstar's smooth reply.

The king closed his eyes. "Then I shall bear her," he insisted. He could not keep his wife from her calling, could only stand at her side as she faced this challenge. It would not be his strength this time that called his Steward to life; that burden would fall to Elrond's daughter. But he would be damned if he allowed her to link with an inexperienced spirit and allow its weight to exhaust her, dragging her down to death.

Éowyn was a valiant lady, but she knew not how to tread the subtle pathways of the mind, could not fathom the pits and traps they would negotiate along the way. It would tax his strength, to bear her, but Arwen had spoken truth: they could not leave her. Aragorn knew he could not endure it if it were he who could not follow, if he were to be the one to stay behind and wait for the silent stroke of doom...

"What must I do?" the Ithilien princess broke through his reverie. Faramir was fading fast, and even this short delay may have been too much.

"Simply try to be at ease," Arwen replied, reaching both hands to join first with Éowyn's solid grip, and then thread her own fingers in Faramir's lifeless ones. Aragorn silently took the Lord Steward's other hand and his wife's, until the were joined in a reverent circle. "You must open yourself to me," the she-elf continued, closing her eyes. "Do not resist, do not fear. Simply focus on your love for him, and allow your spirit to drift…"

This was far more complicated than her words implied. Almost at once Éowyn felt her soul pulling away from her body, and she clamped down tight. But then, she heard Arwen's soft words echo in her mind – _'Easy, mellon nin. Do not fight it.'_ –and she allowed the separation to occur. It was disquieting at first, the retreat of physical sensation. But slowly, she allowed her spirit to follow where it was led, drawn as if to a lodestone. Within moments, she found herself standing on a sunlit forest path, birds chirping softly in the distance The king and queen stood just ahead of her, leaves making dappled shadows on their serene faces.

To any casual observer, it would seem as if all four occupants of the room were engrossed in fervent prayer, hands clasped, eyes closed, faces placid. But upon closer inspection one would note that they did not seem to breathe, their bodies frozen in place, a sheen upon their skin as if frosted in ice. Only Faramir possessed any heat, and his unnaturally so.

They sat in silence, the fire throwing their long shadows on the wall, the dark shapes dancing specters in the deepening dark.

XXXX

Faramir sat by the white marble fountain, enjoying the soft play of the water upon the stones. He had thought he knew every twist and turn of the White City, but he knew not how he had found this secluded courtyard. He had no memory of the stroll which had brought him hither, nor could he remember what day of the week it was, or whether he had any pressing concerns. He could not see the White Tower's cardinal point above the high walls, only a serene blue sky tinged with clouds, which also caused him a small measure of concern. There should be no place in Minas Tirith where the tower could not be seen to loom above the bustling streets below, but somehow he had managed to find such in this isolated garden.

A soft breeze played with the dark strands of his hair, and he gave a peaceful sigh. Part of him wondered if he should take a stab at finding his way back to his apartments, glancing at each of the four arched gates. But nothing seemed particularly important, no concern of state nor personal care luring him to abandon this peaceful retreat. So instead he sat, allowing the warm sun to soak into the black velvet of his raiment, the breeze to whisper softly through his hair.

One of the four avenues seemed to draw his gaze, a diffused mist shimmering with an indistinct murmur that played in and out of the green fronds lining the path. But something inside him harbored a mysterious misgiving, wondering why that path should call to him so. He was content for the moment simply to sit, a small voice in his mind telling him not to enter that alluring portal. And so, torn between the conflicting voices, he obeyed both, and neither, his body rooted to the spot but his eyes continuously going back to that ethereal gate.

Two of the other gates seemed eerily identical, the idyllic collection of houses beyond almost mirrored in each other. He barely gave them each a second look. And the fourth gate…

The fourth gate caused his body to flinch with a cold shiver of fear, and Lord Faramir was not a man easily given over to fear. It projected an impenetrable feeling of "shut," a darkness hovering beyond that spoke of something blocked, something impassive. To enter that gate would mean to invite attack, to compromise his guard and fight against almost insurmountable odds in order to regain something that seemed elusive, even to portion of his mind that urged the defining – the categorization – of every minute speck of information he encountered. He did not know – or rather, could not seem to remember, for he felt that once he must have known – why it should be so important to enter that gate, to undertake that fight. And so he simply sat, basking in the peace of a late spring afternoon, choosing instead to delay the choice until the last possible moment lest it prove the wrong one, as the second son of Denethor had learned over the long years to do.

XXXX


	11. Chapter 11

_I should have posted an apology at the end of the last chapter, but I'll put it here since I'm going to trespass again in this one anyway…_

_I am positive my Quenya is not correct. I did the best I could with the research I was able to conduct. If someone wants to email me the correct translation, I'll amend my errors. (In truth, I was going more for the effect than for perfection, but I did research as thoroughly as I could before I inserted a guessed-at word.)_

_Thanks! On to chapter 11…_

XXXX

The trio stepped lightly along the forest path, taking care not to disturb even the smallest leaf. Éowyn barely dared to breathe, finding it hard to believe that the firm ground beneath her feet was merely illusion, the breeze that lifted the golden hair from her shoulders a figment of her imagination. Though she knew that her body sat in a dark room, the air made thick with herbs and sickness, her every sense strove to convince her that she was not. It seemed a pleasant enough deception, but something deep within screamed at her that if she allowed herself to be taken in, to believe this peaceful illusion and wander from the path, her spirit would be lost, with no chance of ever returning to her body.

The way was lined with trees, and for all intents and purposes it seemed a natural forest, until she noticed how the trees seemed to form a wall on either side, leading them in only one direction. The lady elf and crowned king did not turn back to make sure she followed, merely continued their hasty trek.

Then, they came to an abrupt stop, so abrupt that Éowyn collided with Arwen's back, swallowing a sharp cry. Aragorn had raised his fisted hand, signaling them to stillness. In front of them the path forked, and both ways looked – for all intents and purposes – identical. They stood in the silence with baited breath, closely examining each branch for some indication which way they should take, knowing instinctively that the wrong choice would lead to death.

Arwen closed her eyes and began to whisper, low and full of power. "**_Luvamme ealan lo losse malle. Aistanamme. Tulme saca mellon nin." _**

_(We bow to the spirits of the snow-white road. Bless us. We come in search of our friend.) _

Her voice crested, then died, like a wave on the sea. For a moment, all was dangerously silent, the very birds seeming to wait with them for an answer. Then, a stale breeze blew almost imperceptively from right to left, as if something had attempted to pass them by in stealth. Without hesitation, Aragorn turned and led them to the left where it had disappeared.

As soon as Éowyn's foot stepped across the fork's threshold, the scene on either side of them shifted, and instead of trees they found themselves flanked by rushing water, the dirt path turning to a stone bridge, half submerged, with water hungrily licking its sides. Arwen's hand reached back; the Lady of Rohan did not know how to swim. After all, in the Mark where would she have had the chance to learn? Streams there were shallow enough to easily be forded on foot most days, and when they could not they ran much too swiftly for the beginning swimmer to traverse.

The Road seemed to know, and played to her deepest fear.

As for the White Lady herself, Éowyn was petrified. She latched onto the elven hand, desperate for reassurance. Her heart hammered in her chest, her mouth turned dry and her knees knocking in spite of herself. Not even as Dernhelm, fighting the Witch-king among the ranks on the Pelennor did she feel such terror! Knowing that she possessed skill with a blade gave her some measure of confidence; but she had no skill in the water and was certain that if she lost her footing she would sink like a stone!

'_Do not fear,'_ came Arwen's voice in her mind. _'It is not real.' _

That was of little help, as her stricken mind was convinced of the truth in the cold spray that landed on her skin, the wet scent that besieged her breath.

'_Estel!' _Arwen called out in his mind.

The king stopped and turned. Éowyn's eyes rolled like a panicked steed's, whites showing, legs balking at the queen's attempts to pull her forward. Fear ensured the woman could not have spoken aloud if she wished it, could not have forced her throat to cry out over the roaring of the water.

Aragorn stepped nimbly past his wife, coming to stand before his charge, she white-faced and shaking. In one fell swoop he bent and lifted her into his arms, one hand under her legs behind the knees, the other around her quivering shoulders. Turning back, he nodded once to his elven lady, expression grim and set. Éowyn pushed her face into his chest, burning with fear and shame and anger all at once. She knew not how she came to trust his feet to carry them both, but not her own to manage only herself. But she was slightly calmer knowing that if she fell into the thunderous depths it would only be after the High King of Gondor had first perished there himself...

Holding tight to his burden, Lord Aragorn followed his lady as she pressed on, noticing that the stone bridge seemed to end in the white mist of some falls. He watched her tall slender form disappear beneath the wet curtain, and then plunged in after her without a moment's hesitation.

XXXX

Faramir watched the clouds swirl and shift for what seemed like many marks before a niggling question surfaced in his mind.

_Why did the sun not move?_ he wondered.

It seemed as if he had passed at least half a day within the peaceful garden, and yet the shadows did not lengthen, no darkening appeared at the edge of the sky. _What patch of sky I can see,_ he amended, once again inspecting the high stone walls. Perhaps it was time to head back home…

_Home._

He stood, and then stopped, brow furrowing. Flashes of memory strobed in his mind's eye: the imposing mansion of the Ruling Stewards in Minas Tirith, the familiar falls at Henneth Annûn, a strangely familiar humble (yet infinitely more inviting) stone house in the forests of Ithilien….his father's stern face, his brother's mischievous smile, an enigmatic woman with golden hair…

_Home…_

He took a breath to dispel the sudden ache in his chest, and shook his head in an attempt to clear it.

_Enough._

His gift for clear sight did not often overwhelm his waking thoughts, but when it did he knew it was a sign he was weary and should make for his bed to rest. This fair-haired lady… _pale and perfect_… was no doubt someone he would meet in the coming weeks. Perhaps a delegation was coming from Rohan: he knew the people there were lightly-complected. Perhaps his father had finally arranged a marriage for Boromir, an alliance with the Horse Lords of the North; it was about time he settled down…

Turning to one of the two mirrored gates, he strolled through the stone arch…

… and found himself standing back inside the garden he had just left.

He blinked and shook his head. _I have sat too long in the sun,_ he mused. Turning, his eyes narrowed at the gate by which he stood, and then looked across at the other gate. "I shall take my leave, now," he said aloud, though not knowing why he felt it necessary to make the pronouncement. Taking a deep breath, he once more attempted to step through the archway...

…and found himself again back where he started.

Three more times he attempted to depart, and each time he found himself returned to the softly splashing fountain.

"What wizardry is this!" he cried out, hearing his own voice echo back to him from the white stone. What had begun as merely a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach at the first return had now grown to gut-wrenching proportions. Something was deeply, deeply wrong.

"It is apparent that I may not exit by these bewitched portals," he called, voice unsteady, still expecting someone to appear – Mithrandir perhaps, though he had never known the wizard to play such thoughtless tricks. "Perhaps you will kindly inform me by which way I may return home?"

No flash of light nor swirl of smoke appeared in reply, but something did disappear in the space between one breath and the next – both the mirrored archways. A cold sweat broke out on his neck. _What in the name of all that is holy…_

Some power or other might have thought to simplify his choice, but in reality it had done just the opposite. The two remaining gates yawned at him – the seemingly bright and peaceful path that whispered and enticed him, and the dark and menacing hole that gaped as if a fearful grave. His mind's rational thought was of course to choose the harmless path, but his gut stubbornly rebelled. Somehow he was sure that if he stepped through that fair gate it would not lead him to the destination he sought.

On the other hand, the dark gate made him shudder with an irrational fear, his heart protesting that it had not the strength for another fight. Some fell beast on the other side would surely snatch his soul and rend his body to pieces, and if it did not, he might instead face a violent tempest, or a black knight of Morgul, or one of the fabled giant spiders…

His body shivered involuntarily. He hated spiders.

Returning to the fountain, he sat back down warily, positioning his tense body such that he could glance at each gate with a small turn of the head. "If that is the way it is to be," he barked, voice low and hard. "Then I shall simply wait. Eventually my father or my brother or my lieutenant will send out a search party for me. I pity the wizard who thinks to stand up to the city's wrath. I am a son of the Steward!" He had a feeling whoever was holding him prisoner already knew, nevertheless he thought he would state the fact, just in case.

But the yawning portals did not change, the absent ones did not reappear, nor did any figure step from the shadows of the blossoming trees to negotiate or offer demands.

_That is all right,_ he reflected. _I am a patient man._

Faramir had once gone two weeks without food, when rations were low and his men had been starving. He trusted that he could withstand such penury again, if this imprisonment were to continue. That should give plenty of time for someone to notice he was missing. If he got thirsty, the fountain would provide him water.

_Someone will come, _he reassured himself. _Someone will come soon._

At least, he certainly hoped they did.

XXXX

Arwen stepped through the misty curtain and found herself suddenly surrounded on all sides by heavy, oppressive rock. The wall of water had fallen away, all sound dampened by the thick mineral closing in on all sides. Instinctively the she-elf drew a sharp breath and closed her eyes, heart pounding.

Behind her, she felt her husband stop, lowering the White Lady to the ground.

_A cave… _

While Éowyn would not know the reason for her pause, Estel would know at once her hesitation. The Eldar were not meant to dwell inside stone walls, away from the warm light, far from the song of the trees. Lowering her head, she clenched her fists at her sides. She had not been in one since that fateful day, centuries ago…

…_when I killed the child…_

_x_

"_Her fever burns."_

"_Seven others also are ill. It happens sometimes, with the cave-dwelling folk of the mountains. High fever, aches, and swelling. Something in the water, I believe, and though it passes easily by touch it cannot be passed by drinking after another. The others are older, more able to withstand the fever. I have done for them what I could. Willow bark may help the child… or perhaps hyssop, root, and thyme to bring down the fever."_

"_I have meted two cups of willow bark tea since we arrived. It has not helped…" _

"_You did inquire of the mother, did you not, whether the child has ever had any averse encounters with herbs? There are some who should not drink willow bark…"_

"…_no…"_

_x_

She should have known! Her father had taught her well – she was sure he would not have made such a childish mistake! Faces still swam in her memory: her father's grim countenance, tinged with what she was sure had been deep disappointment, the mother's furious grief, the child's bloodless lips…

Tears pricked her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. If she left any part of herself behind – be it so small a thing as a tear – she would be lost.

This is what the White Maze would do to a healer who attempted to traverse its depths - it could see inside her to the most desperate griefs, the most desolate fears, would use those sorrows and terrors to tempt the soul into error, to turn the mind to madness and then to death.

Behind her she could hear her husband's careful breath; he had trusted her not to lose herself to her past, even if he did not know what memories she held. He had come to study with Elrond after she had forsaken the office of healer, did not know that innocent blood stained the hands of his beloved wife. She had never suffered to tell him. A heat warmed her back – Estel's love and trust in her, the love of the Lady of Rohan for her threatened husband…

_I must not fail them! I must take nothing more for granted!_

She had made a dreadful mistake once, she knew. But she would not make such a mistake again. Opening her eyes and steeling herself against the pressing stone, she clenched her jaw and continued, following the narrowing, darkening tunnel as it wended its way into the dark hole of the earth.

XXXX

_There has been a published report of a 25 year old woman who was admitted to emergency with anaphylaxis after taking 2 capsules of a weight loss supplement that contained willow bark. The patient had a history of allergy to acetylsalicylic acid. So while I am fairly sure Tolkien hasn't attributed any kinds of allergies in Middle Earth, just chalk it up to another invention of mine. _


	12. Chapter 12

_Yes, I know it is taking forever to update this story… believe me, it feels like it's taking forever to write. It's been hard – painful even – getting this part of the story to come. But I am moving slowly towards the climax, and hope you will be patient with me._

_Thank you to everyone who has posted reviews! You help keep me going when I am tempted to give up!_

_Ellethill rocks, by the way. Much thanks to her for helping this story develop and be the best it can be._

_And now… on with the show…_

XXXX

Aragorn followed where his lady led, barely daring to breathe lest he somehow distract her from her perilous task. He could feel Faramir's spirit just ahead of them, not writhing in suffering or torment, but seeming merely to hover in wait. He felt the younger man's spirit uneasy and yet not restless, fearful and yet resolute. _How like Faramir,_ he thought,_ To bravely wait, calmly staring into the face of death…_

It was not, Aragorn realized, how he himself would behave. He would rail, would actively engage his enemy, even at times rash and headstrong in the struggle. Faramir – ever the strategist – would wait for his opponent to act, wait and watch for any weakness before poising to strike, striking only when no other recourse was available, when all alternatives were exhausted and spent. The Lord of Ithilien was not a man who desired the thunder of the march, the whistling of arrows, and the crashing of steel; instead, he longed for the peace of the library, the whisper of a breeze through the leaves, and the laughter of children at play. The king also treasured such things, but deep in his heart of hearts he had to admit the call of the drum was alluring, the air of battle brisk and heady.

The walls were closing in on them now, and he could almost hear Arwen's heart pound and breath quicken. He felt her fear keenly; the Maze had tested both women in their turn, and both had resisted. Éowyn had been terrified, but had not turned back, or worse cried out. His wife had but paused briefly when the scene around them had shifted to this rocky descent, and now pressed on with a courage that made his heart swell with pride and love. He knew his turn would come, and wondered what the White Road would dredge from his mind, what form the path would take.

They approached what looked like an arch carved above them in the rock. Watching the arch coming closer, a feeling of foreboding stole across his heart. He dared not guess what the path would become once they passed under it – it was possible the Road was waiting to see what he would fear to think of, and use it against him. He could almost hear a sinuous whisper in the darkened corners of his mind…

_What will it be, healer? Choose the manner of your death, if you dare… _

The former Dunedain chieftain tried to picture with his mind's eye the gently rolling hills of Rohan, or the strong trees and crashing falls of Rivendell… any place he had been that would give them all some semblance of peace, any place he would not fear to die…

And then it was upon them.

They passed under the archway, and the rock walls melted away - melted into a thick, shapeless white fog. Arwen and Éowyn both stopped and turned to look at him with what looked like shock on both their faces. As he stared, a look of pain came over his wife's face, and then she began to _change_ - her cheeks became sunken, her fine, dark hair falling away until only a few wispy strands remained. She writhed and twitched, his eyes riveted to her stricken face, watching as her skin seemed to shrink into her muscle and bones, as she wasted away to a grotesque skeleton. She began to turn a sickly shade of grayish green, her lips parted in a silent scream of agony… It was as if… no! It could not be!

She was turning into an orc!!

Only once, when it seemed that Sauron might indeed conquer and enslave all of Middle Earth, did he see her thus in a hellish nightmare. The Road had found it, and brought it forth with agonizing clarity.

_NO!! _came his mind's anguished cry._ Whatever you must do, do unto me! Please! Spare her! If it is me you want, it is me you shall have, just… please, do her no harm, I beg you! _He opened his mouth to cry out in surrender, horror, tears springing to his shocked eyes…

Arwen stayed him just in time.

He saw her hand reach out to him, bony with ragged flesh dripping from the fingers, and made to draw back in fear. But then he felt that hand close around his own; her fingers still felt supple, warm, and full of life. She squeezed in a silent message of love and reassurance, and he closed his mouth, drawing in a shaky breath. The touch of her hand warred with the sight of her face, and he could not help but feel grief-ridden and sick at the sight of her withered, disfigured form.

His lady's voice echoed in his mind. '_My love, it is not real.'_

Shaking his head, blinking, he stared, but the specter in front of him did not disappear. Her other hand came up to his face, and he could not suppress the shudder to see the fetid skin so close to his eyes, but when he closed them he felt her warm, soft fingertips touch his lids. He made to open them again, but her gentle pressure stopped him from doing so. He knew what she was trying to tell him: the only way he could go forward would be to close his eyes, for he could not bear to look upon her. But the ranger in him relied on his eyes to track, to aim, to glean information he would use to make a thousand life or death decisions. How could he walk, blind? What if his feet left the path? What if he stumbled and fell against either she or Eowyn and caused one of them to cry out, their soul sucked away and down the spinning black whirlpool of death?

_What if it is my fault??_

But she kept her fingers on his eyes insistently, squeezing his hand with a firm and stubborn pressure, her urgent whisper in his mind:

'_Estel, you must trust me.'_

He did.

Nodding to let her know he understood, he felt the warm fingertips disappear from his closed lids. This next step would be the hardest one he had ever taken. Drawing an unsteady breath, he reached out his free hand in front lest he stumble into something unseen, and cautiously began to walk forward.

It was more difficult than he could ever describe, not opening his eyes. No blindfold was there to aide him, to suppress the growing urge to flick his lids open for even the tiniest of moments. He tried to concentrate on the feeling of her warm hand in his own, the sensation of the firm ground beneath his feet, ears nearly ringing in the deathly silence. Thus encumbered, he followed blindly, each step bringing them closer to Faramir's waiting spirit, trusting the warm grip of his wife's vanguard hand.

XXXX

Since his last announcement to the cognizant air, Faramir had watched as ominous shadow slowly crept into the high-walled garden. His grey eyes had flicked from corner to corner, from gate to gate, still waiting and watching for the wizard – for he was convinced there was black sorcery involved in his imprisonment – to reveal himself. At first he thought his mind was playing tricks on him, but after some time it became apparent that the garden was indeed growing very dark, menacing clouds gathering in the blue sky above. The warm breeze died away, the air about him beginning to bite with an icy chill. His shoulders fought not to shiver, not to betray any sign of weakness. Frost began to gather on the branches of the trees, the fountain behind him growing softer and softer until it became entirely choked with ice.

_You're going to have to do better than this, wizard, _he thought, crossing his arms against his chest for warmth, wishing that he could somehow have managed to bring a cloak with him into this unwilling confinement. _If you think merely to test my endurance, then you know not the fortitude demanded of a Ranger from Ithilien._

The clouds above rumbled ominously, and within moments stinging sleet began to fall. _More rain,_ he sighed, feeling the needles land on his hunched shoulders. Something tried to surface deep within his mind, an awkward sensation of a long-forgotten memory…

…_icy rain… slogging through mud… a stone house in the forest of Ithilien… the beautiful woman with golden hair…_

He closed his eyes. His head had begun to ache. His heart ached, as well, though for the life of him he could not make out the cause. For some reason a feeling of dread had begun to grow deep inside, as if something very important was at stake, but whatever it was hovered just beyond his grasp. If he concentrated hard enough, it might come to him, but thinking on it made his head pound with a vengeance.

Suddenly, a whisper of air moved across his face from right to left, as if something had attempted to pass him by unnoticed. Looking to his left where it had gone, he saw the summery gate winking at him it its still-sunlit glory, seeming ever more bright and inviting with the freezing rain that was creeping down his collar. To his right, he knew the dark gate still yawned, but he would not turn his eyes to it. Instead, he felt his limbs tingling with the desire to stand and walk towards that warm portal, almost overriding the instinct that had kept him from approaching it thus far. His body longed to be warm, and he was growing tired of the wait. But a small voice inside clamored that he must not approach the sunlit path, that anything so seemingly beautiful in the midst of all else so noticeably wrong could not possibly be what it appeared.

_After all,_ he reasoned. _Why else should it call to me so, tempt me thus, if it did not mean me harm? Never before in my life has anything easy been the right course to take, and nor will I wager is it now._

He could feel someone approaching the garden – from which direction, he could not say – and though he was almost eager to bring an end to this interminable suspension, he also could not discern from his intuition what manner of person approached. Perhaps it was the sorcerer, but… somehow he thought not. He could not explain it, but he thought whoever was coming would effect his salvation.

_I shall continue to wait, though I do not know how much longer I can hold out. Please… whoever is coming… I pray you come soon._

Tucking his hands under his arms, he closed his eyes, feeling an icy drop of rain trickle down his cheek.

XXXX

Éowyn concentrated on putting one foot in front of another, her heart stone cold in her chest. She had not seen what had unnerved the king so, what had caused him to go pale, his eyes wide and fearful at the sight. She now walked ahead of the royal couple, a position she had not anticipated being required to fulfill. When Arwen had placed her fingers on Aragorn's eyes, she had motioned the Lady of the Mark to go ahead of them, likely to prevent a sudden halt causing her to stumble into the king. She did not understand the reason for his voluntary blindness, but then again nothing in this treacherous world of shadows seemed bound by sense and reason. The thick white fog that had enveloped them after they had passed under the arch had no temperature, no texture, almost as if they had disappeared into nothing.

Her thoughts kept returning to her beloved. Images flashed through her mind: his wan face shadowed in the Houses of Healing, his raven hair whipped by the fierce wind, how he had looked on the day of their wedding, his blue velvet bringing out the grey of his eyes… She knew she had not truly appreciated it then, when she kept her heart locked safely away from the Steward of Gondor, and the uncertainty he embodied. How she had feared a cage! And yet, she now realized with a pang, she had lived those first months in a cage of her own making, not allowing herself to spread her wings and test the currents in her new-found role as wife and companion for fear of… of…

_Of what?_

She did not even think she knew.

Closing her eyes briefly, regret squeezed her heart in its vice-like grip. _I will not be so foolish again._ Opening them once more, she saw something begin to appear through the mist. She saw an arched gate, and beyond it a white stone fountain. And there… sitting beside the fountain…

_Faramir!_

She almost cried out, instead bringing a hand up to cover her mouth. Glancing behind her, she could tell by the grave expression on Arwen's face that the queen had seen him, as well. Behind them both, the king cautiously stepped along the path, his eyes still closed tight. Soon, they closed the distance to the gate, and stood together. The elven lady touched her lord's face, bidding him to open his eyes to the sight.

Just inside, the Steward sat hunched, hands folded across his chest. His head was turned away from them, looking at a gate directly opposite where they stood. To the three standing outside the garden, that gate was wreathed in flames, a yawning abyss of fiery doom.

Arwen took a deep breath to step into the garden…

… but she was denied entry.

It was not as if a barrier blocked her path, but simply that she could not take the step she wished. She and Aragorn exchanged a look, and he came to stand next to her to make his own attempt. But he, also, could not lift his feet to cross the threshold. For some reason, neither king nor queen would be permitted into Faramir's safe haven.

Both of them turned to the Lady of Ithilien in expectation, and her brow lifted in surprise. She was to try to enter where the two of them were not permitted to go?

_Come now, Éowyn,_ she chided herself. _Where is the fearless shieldmaiden who defied her king and went in disguise in search of glory and death at the hands of a dark army of orcs? How should you now hesitate, when it is another whom you love needing you to fight at his side?_

Squaring her shoulders, she slipped between the monarchs, facing the sealed portal. The White Lady's blue eyes shone with determination, her pale skin acquiring a slight flush. She once again heard the queen's soft voice in her mind.

'_Go, mellon nin. Go to your husband.'_

And with that, she stepped easily through the gate, and into the garden.

Éowyn found herself standing just inside the high walls, the fountain in the center frozen over, a cold sleet falling all around her. Strangely, it did not seem to touch her, and she herself did not feel cold. A swift look over her shoulder told her that she could not see her companions through the arch – instead it appeared dark, and… _closed._ She suppressed a shudder of fear. Across the garden, the other gate had changed, also - now warm, bright, and dangerously inviting. If she had not first seen it from outside, she would have been drawn to its pleasing path. At least now she understood why her husband seemed obsessed with looking on it, impressed that he had thus far resisted its siren call.

As for the man in question, she could only see the back of his dark head, the sleet soaking his garments and causing him to tense as he strove to suppress the chill that gripped him. Unfortunately, she was unsure whether she could call out to him, or otherwise how to approach. She wished that the king and queen were here, surely they would know what to do!

Looking at the poor man, love welled up in her breast. She wanted him home, wanted to see him hale and strong, laughing with her, walking hand in hand in the garden, regarding her with his piercing, adoring stare…

Suddenly, as if sensing her presence, he turned to face her. She smiled, tears of relief standing naked in her loving eyes.

But he stood abruptly, his expression set, and hard.

"Come not near me, witch!" he commanded, his voice echoing in the silence. "I am Faramir, Captain of the Ithilien Rangers, son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor, and I will not be held against my will. Release me, or prepare to suffer the wrath of the White City!" Determination and hatred poured from his steely gaze.

Her breath caught in her throat.

_Oh Bema… what do I do now??_

XXXX


	13. Chapter 13

XXXX

Faramir had just about had enough. The rain was insufferable, the threat of the unknown looming like a sword on a thread, and just when he thought he would burst from the strain of it all, he heard a rustle behind him. Turning, he saw the pale, golden lady from his vision standing in the garden. She glowed with an unearthly light, eyes shining, a smile of triumph spreading across her lovely face…

A witch!

He had not anticipated this. There had been no indication in his vision that the beautiful woman would mean him ill. But there she stood, appearing from the dark gate just when he was most tempted to succumb to his despair.

As had often been the tendency with those of his line, anxiety gave way to anger. How dare this sorceress think to violate the House of the Stewards! And so he issued his command, demanding his release, his limbs strained and breath hot, almost daring her to defy him.

But then… her eyes became stricken, her lovely face grew pale and creased with what could only be anguish… hopelessness…

A choked sob rang from the stones, her slender hands coming to her chest as she bent near in half from what looked like heart-rending pain. Cerulean eyes flooded with crystalline tears that pierced him to his very core, and his ears pricked when her lips whispered, halting and thick:

"… oh, my husband… my lord… my peace of mind and ease of heart – my Faramir..."

A prayer, a half stifled hope, and his eyes widened in disbelief.

_I have heard those words… spoken not with grief, but with hope and love…_

He shook his head, struggling to remain firm and resolute, at any moment anticipating an attack. Yet, the words echoed in his ears, and suddenly an image came to his mind...

_White sheets… her blissful smile… golden hair strewn across the shoulders of a white gown… _

But how could that be?

He looked at her again, seeing how one ivory hand had stretched itself out towards him, though the lady herself did not seem to know what it was about. Her eyes were fixed on him, as if he might vanish, as if her very existence depended upon his own.

Suddenly, a name came unbidden to his lips.

"…Éowyn …?"

He was not aware he had spoken aloud until he saw her eyes go wide, and she crossed the distance as if a bolt from a crossbow. In the space between one breath and the next, she had clasped her arms about his neck, and buried her face in his shoulder with a stifled cry. He stood there, stunned, as the lady hung on him.

The name did not mean anything to him, it was simply a name plucked from the air. But apparently it meant something to the lady. After a long moment - feeling her heart beating against his own, her warm fingers closed around the nape of his neck - he closed his eyes, breathing in her scent. She smelled wholesome and clean, like the crisp breeze that swept through a spring morning, chasing the dank air of winter away. He brought his hands up to her waist, pressing lightly against the small of her back, a familiar burning in his chest that caused his breath to catch in his throat. She felt like… like _home._

His body remembered if his mind did not.

Suddenly, the earth shifted, groaning like thunder under their feet. His arms moved instinctively to steady the lady, hands catching her arms as she stumbled. Wide blue eyes met his, but he was as startled as she.

"Faramir," she grasped his arm, fingers clutching his tunic in a desperate grip. "You must listen to me – I know not how much time we have. This is not real. This garden, the fountain…" She laid her slim hands to his cheeks, looking intently, searchingly, into his face. "Do you trust me?"

Looking into those azure depths, he felt something click into place. He nodded.

"Then we must quit this place, we must find our way back…"

She turned to the dark gate, clasping his hand in hers and making to pull him toward it behind her.

But he balked.

Whipping her head around to face him, the Lady of the Mark saw fear stand naked in his eyes.

"Faramir?" she asked, insistent.

"I… I cannot…"

The ground shook again, small fissures splitting the stone walls.

"There is death beyond that portal," he muttered, his eyes not on her, but on the gate beyond. He did not know why, but the thought of her bright form disappearing into the blackness caused terror to spear his soul like nothing he had ever felt before. "I would not want your death to follow mine," he whispered.

"It would not be your decision," she affirmed, gently but insistently. "There is death here, my heart, whether you would see it or no. And I love you." He looked at her then, astonishment coloring his mien. "If you will not go, I will not go. We will stay here and await our doom. Or should you wish to cross the other gate, bright and deadly, I shall follow you there, also. Whether it be on that side of the gate or this, we will die together."

Faramir lowered his head. "You…you would love me that much?"

Her reply was swift, and impassioned, with no thought for her words or how inelegant they may be. "Without you, I would welcome death wherever I could find it."

She knew time was running out, and knew also she must convince him to go with her, to try to bring him back. If she could not… Imperiousness burned in her face. "I have bound myself to you, both as wife and as true companion. Can you not see? I have searched for you and it is the only thing that kept has me alive, believing that somehow… somehow beyond all hope…" She swallowed thickly before continuing. "I have found you! If you cannot find it in yourself to hold on to what endurance I believe is in you, to believe that you have the strength for this last fight, then believe in me, hold on to me and I shall bear the burden for us both!"

"I do not know what lies beyond that gate…" Faramir sounded lost, uncertain of anything. _Wife? Companion?_

Éowyn went to him, cupped his face, and gazed into his searching eyes. "Please, look at me. Look into my soul, if you must, through the gift of your house. I am here. I shall be whatever strength you need."

He took a deep breath, steadying himself. His heart quickened its beat to have her so near, to feel her touch, soft and warm, to his cold skin. "I would not burden you so, lady. There is a need to find my own strength…"

"You shall, I swear, but now we must fly!" She stopped, looking long into his eyes. Leaning forward, she pressed a deep, passionate kiss to his lips, striving to reveal all that lay within her heart which her tongue could not adequately portray. She felt his lips respond, breath mingling with her own. Withdrawing, she whispered, "You were my light to lead me home once. Let me be your light now."

The lord shut his eyes, feeling the burn of her lips on his, even after they had moved away. The ground shook again, and he swallowed hard, knowing the peril in which they stood and yet fearing to withstand it. "I…" his voice broke. "I do not know how to let you."

"Just let go," the queen's quiet words came to her lips. "Be at peace. Let go and let me carry you until you can find your feet again. As I know you will."

Opening his eyes and looking deeply into hers, the Lord of Ithilien saw the sincerity there and grabbed on to it. "I do not deserve you," he whispered, chest tight.

"Love is not about what we deserve," she replied, dropping her eyes. "If it was, it would not be something we give freely."

Another image flashed through his mind, their faces close, breath warm, the silken touch of a blindfold in his hand… "I remember what we shared," he breathed, eyes alight. "The memory is getting clearer and clearer..."

The earth tilted again, violently. "Come!" she screamed as the walls around them began to crumble away. "Now!"

They raced to the dark portal, even as it disintegrated almost above their heads. Leaping through it, they found themselves falling, as if from a high cliff…

… and even then they did not let go their hands.

XXXX

Arwen had seen the two rushing towards them, and had managed to maneuver Estel and herself out of the way before the other couple came crashing through the gate. The moment they crossed its threshold, the ground before them disappeared, dropping down the face of a sheer cliff.

The vision from her dream.

Her feet stood upon the edge, and she watched as Faramir and Eowyn fell into the darkness below, holding tight to each other's hand.

Turning to her husband, she saw his eyes wide, but also shining with trust. Clasping his hand in her own, she nodded to him once, saw him nod in return…

…and then they leapt into the void.

XXXX

The fire had burned low, until only the embers smoldered red in the darkness. From the window, a weak light cast its shaky beams across the still forms on the bed. The storm had passed, leaving a soft blue sky fretted with crisp clouds.

Aragorn opened his eyes, feeling a bone-deep weariness that left him weak and shaking. Never before in his long life had he felt so drained.

His wife's cool hand slipped from his grasp, and he saw her exhausted face regarding him with love. Deep within, he could sense that some long trouble had been laid to rest, some secret demon had been vanquished without his having been aware of the fight. He gave her a wan smile.

Blinking, he turned his attention to his patient. Extending a trembling hand, he laid it across Faramir's brow. His steward's fever was a little lower, and though his breath still wheezed in his chest there was a healthier color to his cheeks than before their sojourn beyond the veils.

And he slept. A deep, healing sleep.

"He has found his strength," Arwen whispered, her eyes traveling to the fourth member of their fellowship.

Éowyn was fast asleep. Her golden head lay pillowed on her lord's breast, his hand still clasped in hers under her chin. As they watched, Faramir's head turned a little on his pillow until his cheek rested against his wife's crown, a soft sigh escaping his lips.

The king and queen smiled, dragging their somnolent bodies away to some much needed rest.

XXXX


	14. Chapter 14

_Thanks to everyone who gave me lovely reviews! I appreciate your support, encouragement, and feedback!_

_There will be an epilogue to follow… but alas, every story must come to an end!_

XXXX

A sound in her ear caused her to turn her head slightly, brow furrowing in confusion. Éowyn's senses tracked her whereabouts, all thought disjointed and hazy with drowsiness. Her body lay on something soft, and there was a warmth along the length of her. She burrowed closer to it, hearing again the sound that first had roused her. _A heartbeat._ Struggling to raise her lids, they fluttered open to sunlight streaming through the window, a light breeze coming through the small opening near the sill.

"Good… morrow…" a hoarse, halting whisper came from above.

She jumped, and would have fallen out of bed had not a hand steadied her back. Lifting her eyes, she saw the pale, drawn face of her husband lying against the pillows, his half-closed eyes quietly regarding her. Her eyes widened, mouth suddenly dry, tongue thick. His lips curved into a small smile, tired eyes closing briefly before opening once again. His gaze seemed to caress her face, as if he'd never seen such a sight before, sweet and precious to behold. She felt his left arm tighten gently around her back, his right hand resting lightly on his stomach. Looking down, she saw her own fingers entwined in his, rising and falling with his slow breathing.

Pushing up to rest on her elbow, she examined him more closely. He was still but a shadow of himself, listless and weak. But the warmth she felt coming from him was also but a shadow of the fever that had burned in him for so long. His breathing, also, was better – no longer the heaving of lungs struggling to do their work, merely the quiet rasp of breath tired from a long struggle. She knew he was not yet well – would not be well for some weeks to come – but no longer was he dying.

Tears filled her eyes and coursed unchecked down her cheeks. Her heart was filled near to bursting with love and relief; she had not thought they both would survive the night. And to see his eyes – the color of wet stone – wrinkle with his faint smile was more than she could have ever hoped!

A pull on her fingers caused her to glance down. Faramir had withdrawn his hand, and was now bringing it – shaking, without strength – to brush his thumb across her cheek, wiping the tears away. She grasped it, pressing her lips to his warm palm as he had so often done to hers, closing her eyes as the tears continued to fall.

"I…" her voice broke on a sob. "Oh, Faramir! I was so afraid!"

His arm came up behind her back, its weight bearing her down once more to his chest. She slipped her arm about him, squeezing lightly, and felt his fingers glide through her hair, palm cupping the back of her head. His lips pressed to her brow, both their eyes closing as they each reveled in the feel of the other, close and safe.

"I love you," she whispered fervently.

"And I you," he returned, his voice near gone with fatigue.

After a few moments of indulging in his warm embrace, she sat up carefully, heart full to see his hand catch hers, holding fast, even as his eyes slid shut. Extending her free hand, she combed her fingers through the tousled hair that had fallen across his cheek. He sighed, contented, and relaxed under her hand.

A soft knock on the door caused her to start. Swiftly turning, she saw a house servant push the door open quietly, eyes downcast. "M'lady… begging your pardon, but his highness left this for the Lord Steward when he awoke." The girl carried a tray, a steaming bowl of broth, a cup, and a kettle of tea balanced carefully upon it.

"Thank you, Mira," the White Lady murmured, placing her husband's hand gently at his side before rising to receive it. "How fares our king?"

A blush deepened the girl's already rosy cheeks, making her seem as if sunburned. "He sleeps, lady. Both their majesties have slept nigh on half a day. Before retiring, he bid me deliver this, along with a command not to disturb them unless dire need arose." She curtsied, a swift bob that betrayed the awkwardness of her youth. "I heard voices here, and so I came."   
"You have done well," Éowyn smiled, placing a hand on the girl's ruby cheek. "I shall call for you when it is time to take the tray."

"M'lady," another bob, and the girl made a hasty retreat.

Carefully keeping the tray level, she made her way back to her husband's side. She placed it on the night table, and then laid a hand to his still-warm cheek, watching as his eyes fluttered open. "You must eat," she said softly, placing her hands under his arms to help him sit a little more upright. The Prince of Ithilien issued a long sigh, allowing his lady's strong hands to aid him. She sat by him, taking a cloth and draping it across his chest lest the hot liquid spill, for the bowl was quite warm in her hands. Dipping the spoon into the nourishing broth, she first blew upon it before slipping it gently between his lips. His eyes closed, seeming to enjoy the warmth that slid past his sore throat and soothed his aching chest.

Despite his evident exhaustion, Faramir took the bowl of broth and the cup of tea that followed. Near the end, he could no longer keep his eyes open, could barely lift his head; his wife went as slowly and as patiently as he needed to swallow the healing draught. When he had finished, she dabbed his chin with the cloth before helping him to slide down, his breath becoming deep and even as he drifted off to sleep.

Mira came to take the tray, and Éowyn's eyes widened as her own stomach's loud rumbling echoed off the walls of their bedchamber. The girl suppressed a giggle, muttering something about venison and brown bread, and so the lady of the house followed her servant into the main room, deeply inhaling the mouth-watering scents that hung in the air. Seating herself at the large wooden table, a heaping plate of meats, cheeses, and vegetables appeared before her, and she set upon it with a will that would have astonished the most seasoned rider of the Riddermark.

A long swallow of wine topped off her meal, and she sat back, sated. Outside, she heard the soft nickering of horses, hushed voices of men, and the muffled clank of metal. The rangers had returned, and from the sound of it had done so some time ago, enough to have slept off their exhaustion, assuaged their hunger, and now were setting their gear to rights and grooming the horses.

She wondered if any of them knew how close the company had come to losing their beloved Captain. An image came to her mind of Faramir, muttering in the throes of his fever, the sound of his wrenching coughs echoing from the corners of the room. Her heart blenched.

_How close we both had come!_

Taking herself to task for such dark thoughts, she stood and decided to she needed some sunlight and fresh air. Crossing to the heavy front door, she opened it to the brisk autumn day, closing her eyes and breathing the fierce air that cut through the thin material of her house gown. She shivered, but did not close the door. Instead, she stepped out into the yard, crossing to the stables amidst the curious glances of the rangers. Drawn to the barn as to a lodestone, she approached Windfola's stall and stroked the soft muzzle.

She clucked softly, whispering, "Hwelc gecweðan eow a ridan, giese?"

_(What say you to a ride, yes?)_

XXXX

There was a weight on his chest.

Faramir shifted, wincing as his body protested even the little movement. His limbs ached, muscles stiff from lying abed so long. But he felt weak and awkward as a newborn colt.

Sighing, he realized that the weight was simply the effect of his illness. After the latest attack of wet, racking coughs that were closer to choking than anything, the steward lay crumpled into the pillows, his sagging body a mass of sweat and quivering muscles. His face pale and filmy with perspiration, he gratefully accepted the cup of water the king held to his lips.

He had awoken to find Aragorn sitting by him, ready with soft cloths and steaming water to help him bathe and change into a clean nightshirt. Unfortunately, he had quickly begun to cough up the congestion in his lungs, and it was a violent and messy affair. His chest burned with an unending ache that drained him and, when his chest spasmed with the harsh coughing, he clutched at the sheets, gagging on the thick phlegm. It was still hard for him to breathe, but not as hard as it had been before.

Aragorn had told him that for the next few days he would continue to bring up the wetness that had assaulted his lungs, that his throat would remain raw with the coughing, and that he would be weak and tire easily. But the healer-monarch continued to ply his patient with herbs and teas, interspersed with cool water to thin out the fluid in his chest, and smile at him reassuringly.

His wife had gone for a ride, he had been told. When she might return, no one knew for sure. But the thought eased his heart as did no reassurance the king could offer of his eventual return to health; Éowyn would not have left his side if he were still in danger.

He remembered his wife's patient, soothing touch during the worst of his illness. She had been his refuge, his light and his strength. Of the king and queen, however, he remembered but little. Snatches here and there only, no sustained memory of their participation in his healing.

There was something else he remembered, though he was convinced it was a dream caused by the fever. A high walled garden… a softly splashing fountain…

Shaking his head, he closed his eyes and sighed. Growing up he had not often been ill; indeed until the Southron dart and the subsequent Shadow had felled him, he had never suffered more than the annoyance of a cold or other minor childhood illnesses. The fever that had burned in him when his father sought to end both their lives had also burned away much of his memory of those events, and so from the time he was hit with the arrow until he awoke to the king's summons, it was like a thing he had once read – as if it happened to someone else. The grief he felt over losing both father and brother had been tempered by the weight of his duties as Steward, preparing for the return of the king.

This illness, however, sapped him as had nothing he had ever experienced. He had of course been wounded before, but at least then he had the urgency of battle to carry him through, and his skill with the bow and the blade had ensured that his wounds had never been too serious, and so he was unaccustomed to the role of invalid. It was not a part he hoped to play again.

"How does he fare?" he heard the queen's gentle whisper.

"He sleeps," came the king's hushed reply, a rustling of fabric telling his ears that the couple was moving out of the room so as not to disturb his rest.

The Lord Steward coughed a little, not enough to set off the fire in his chest, but enough to relieve the slight tickle in his throat. The king had said that in a few days he would be allowed to rise and sit in a chair by the fire for an hour or two at a time, and each day they would gradually increase the time he spent up and about until he regained his full strength. He could well imagine it would take several weeks before he felt ready to wield a sword, and worried a little for his company, and who would lead them in his convalescence. Perhaps the king would appoint Mablung, or Damrod. The former would have to be called out of retirement, but he knew that would be no hardship for the seasoned veteran. The latter had been on leave, but would be returning at the end of the week, if his majesty felt the corps could do without a leader for such a time.

He felt a deep pang of guilt at having abandoned the men in the forest. What could have possessed him to even think such a thing, let alone to do it! His cheeks burned, deciding to spend some time thinking on how to make reparations to the men for such a breach of trust.

(In truth, Faramir had no cause for alarm; his men had hardly given his departure a second thought, except perhaps to chuckle over the idea of a man so completely besotted by his lady wife.)

Outside the window, he heard the clip of horse's hooves, and greetings tossed to his lady, apparently returned from her ride. He knew she would bathe before joining him, and supposed that a short nap might be in order so that he would be more alert and able to spend some time with her before supper…

The lord slipped gently into sleep, a contented smile adorning his tired face.

XXXX


	15. Epilogue

_Thank you so so SO much to everyone who was patient with me while I finished this! Of the three stories I started back in August, this is the second one finished, and I am gearing up to get back to the third (which has languished far too long in neglect). I greatly appreciate everyone who has come with Faramir, Éowyn, and I on this new journey!_

XXXX

_Skeins of sunlight spin down in strands from laden boughs_

_Golden hair of morning on the forest's ivory brow…_

Faramir scribbled through the lines he had written, expelling a harsh breath of frustration which turned into a small fit of coughing. It passed quickly, and he ran his ink-stained fingers through his black hair, pulling the fur around his tense shoulders and squinting down at the parchment in intense concentration. He was sitting in his study, his desk facing the window where the snow was falling in gentle feathery wisps. At his back a cheerful fire blazed, and at his side a warm goblet of spiced wine awaited his thirst. Éowyn had settled him there that morning, wrapping him in the thick fur and admonishing him not to tax his strength, still vulnerable these several weeks after his illness.

The king and queen had departed the second morning he awoke from the fever, no longer able to delay their return to Minas Tirith and leaving him in the competent care of his devoted wife. In the weeks since then he had slept much and complained little, knowing full well it was his own stubbornness and pride that had caused his illness to escalate to the degree it had, causing both wife and liege lord much distress. He deeply regretted being the cause of so much grief, especially having dragged the king and queen out of their bed to ride to Ithilien in one of the worst storms to blow across Middle Earth in several seasons. That particular detail still caused his cheeks to flush with shame.

He began to cough again, feeling the slight wheeze that still lingered in his chest, and reached for the warm goblet to soothe away the scratch in his throat. The ranger's ears picked up the soft footfall of his wife just outside the study door, a small sigh escaping his lips. No doubt she had heard the cough, and had risen to check on her invalid husband, leaving her worktable where she was potting the fresh herbs Aragorn's rider had delivered the previous day.

_No doubt to make yet another foul poultice or potion to speed my recovery,_ the ill lord grimaced. He knew they meant well, but Valar, those brews!

"My love?" floated her soft voice from the portal.

"I am well," he replied patiently, if a little stern, grateful for her loving care and yet not wishing to be hovered over. "Be not concerned. There is nothing I require."

His lady's brow quirked into a bemused expression and quietly withdrew without further comment.

Her independent husband was chafing at his confinement,The Steward admitted that he was not yet recovered: he tired easily, only managing to stay awake for a few marks at a time before succumbing to his body's need to rest and heal. This morning, however, he had finally managed to catch up on the correspondence that had accumulated over the course of his illness and recovery, and could indulge himself in a relaxing – if sometimes exasperating – pastime.

Bending over, he placed quill to parchment to attempt another halting turn of phrase…

xxx

Éowyn sighed as she made her way back down the stone hall towards her workroom, wiping her dirt-stained hands on her coarse house dress, hearing another stifled cough come from the man in the far room. She knew it was nothing to fear; her husband was no longer in any danger. His lungs were weak, she knew, and would take some time to fully heal. Each day the cough became less and less frequent, his body able to carry him further for longer without collapsing, winded, into the nearest chair.

It was taking longer than Faramir would have liked.

Longer than his wife would have liked, also.

He still carried the marks of his illness on his face, which was paler than it had been, and thinner, as he ate very little. The first few days after he awoke from the fever the coughing that brought up the fluid in his chest had been so violent at times as to provoke his stomach to revolt. Weeks of herbed teas and pallid broths followed this, until his appetite was much diminished. Éowyn had not eaten much, either, though at times she found herself craving the oddest things. Pickled cabbage and honey was by far the most bizarre request she had made of the old cook. Other than the occasional craving, the White Lady's meals were accomplished catch as catch can, with much coaxing on her part for her husband to eat, and on the servants part for her to eat.

A determined look glinted in her azure eye as she reached her work table and plunged her hands into the dark soil that had been dug from the frozen garden and then thawed near the fire. Tonight she had one of Faramir's favorite dishes planned, hoping to tempt him to eat and gain his strength. Aragorn had sent some exotic herbs that could be rubbed on a loin of boar or a haunch of venison to stimulate the appetite, and unbeknownst to her husband this very moment a haunch from the king's own kitchen was roasting over the large fire, generously spiced and salted, with pots of brandied cherry sauce and stewed vegetables. The smell in the kitchen was exquisite, and she knew eventually it would waft its way down to Faramir's study.

The image of her husband sitting at his table caused a warmth to spread through her chest – bundled up in his fur, his fingers black with ink, and the adorable way his brow would furrow as he bent over his papers…

She smiled down at the tender green shoots, imagining the look on his face when his eyes beheld the table laden with sumptuous offerings, which would include his wife clad in a new silver gown sent by the queen from her own dressmaker. Her eyes softened, longing taking root in the pit of her stomach.

_Perhaps tonight he will have appetite for more than venison…_

She had missed him so in his absence! And since then he had been too weak to even consider attempting to join in the marriage bed.

But now – though he was thin – he was no longer frail.

Two marks later, the princess of Ithilien arched her back to stretch out its stiffness and wiped her dirt stained hands on the damp rag at her side. The wondrous smell was awakening a ravenous hunger in her the like of which she had not felt in years!

She had potted the herbs in a long wooden trough, built to fit the window in the kitchen perfectly. Her workroom – formerly a spare pantry that had been modified for her winter gardening pursuits, (which caused much dismay among the servants in the Steward's house that their Lady should soil her hands thus) – was off the hallway adjoining the kitchen. The independent Rohirrim grasped the heavy trough, laden as it was with plants and soil, and huffed as she carried it down the hall to the kitchen.

The greeting she received by the kitchen staff was deafening.

"Oh! my lady!..."

"Aaggh!"

"…ye gods!..."

"What the…!"

"…surely she didn't!..."

A flurry of activity surrounded the mistress of Ithilien, whose face was frozen wide in astonishment. The trough was lifted from her arms while firm hands ushered her to a nearby chair and a goblet of cider placed at her lips. The cook, a brown, matronly woman of indeterminate age placed one hand on her shoulder and with the other shooed everyone else away.

"Take that beaker, Mared… No, I don't care where y' put it, jus' take it away! Lan, take over a' th' spit, dear. An' som'body call fer her women! They'll be somewhere 'round th' laundry or th' bedchamber. Now, m'lady," she addressed the lady, patting her shoulder. "Ye jus' sit here an' rest an' wait fer yer women t' come t' ye."

Éowyn, frozen, rooted to the spot, could only watch dumbfounded as the plump figure stalked back to her work. She had never been spoken to thus! Ire rose to choke her, and she had half a mind to fling the cup in her hand at the woman's broad back.

But…

There had been something about her behavior, about that of all of the kitchen servants, which had her confused. They had not been condescending; it did not strike her that they thought she was weak or incapable of bearing a heavy load. Indeed, many of them had helped her bear buckets of water to their chamber for her husband's baths; she weighed down with just as full a bucket as they. Then, they had given no resistance, no cry of alarm.

_Why then now?_ she wondered, brow furrowing as she stared into the deep amber cup. _There had been a fear,_ she mused. _Fear, as if for my safety. And also a respect. The hands that guided me to the chair had been firm and yet hesitant, as if I were somehow different to touch. _Many of these servants had become easy in her presence over the last months, but – come to think of it – over the last week or so they had all seemed to walk on eggshells around her, as if afraid to upset or disturb her in any way.

_What could this mean?  
_A voice startled her from her reverie. "My lady?"

Looking up, she saw her gentlewomen, Loris and Heva, standing before her, pale and still. Both women had been with her since she had been in the Houses of Healing. Both had lost men in the Great War, and Loris had lost both her babes. But they were competent women who took great pride in the care of the Steward's wife, who now sat before them with childlike confusion, eyes wide and questioning.

"You must take care, my lady," Loris murmured, moving forward to help Éowyn to her feet. Heva moved to the other side, steering their mistress towards her dressing chamber.

"Why?" Éowyn responded, her voice high and innocent. "What have I done to create all this uproar?"

Heva and Loris exchanged knowing glances, which did not escape the Lady's attention. Quick as a wink her expression changed, eyes darkening, like a cloud passing over a bright patch of sky. "I will be told," she commanded, her voice hard and low.

"Forgive us, my lady," Heva replied in that breathy voice which unnerved Éowyn so. "We thought you knew."

"Knew. What." She demanded, hissing and low.

"That you were with child," Heva whispered, pale eyes downcast and voice so low her mistress had to practically read her lips to make out what she had said.

Éowyn's lips parted, but no reply came forth. Instead, for the second time that day she was astonished into silence.

"You have not had your courses for two months now," Loris added in that same soft whisper, as if someone might overhear them in the isolated corridor. "Forgive us, my lady, but we all assumed you knew of your condition. We only wondered whether you had yet informed his lordship, as he has been so ill."

_A child! _ Her breath stopped. _ Faramir's child! Heir to Ithilien, line of the kings of Rohan, and the Stewardship of Gondor! _ Snow began to creep at the edges of her feeling, and she felt her legs weaken. If not for the hands of the women at her side, she might have fallen to the floor in a faint. As it was, the ladies-in-waiting guided their mistress – pale with shock – into her dressing chamber. They sat her upon a cushioned bench, patted and soothed her as they would a child as they explained in hushed tones how the next months would go.

After nearly a mark of soft hands and spiced wine, the lady of Ithilien began to recover herself. She gently pushed her ladies away, both thanking and dismissing them with a few soft words. They departed, glancing over their shoulders with anxious eyes, but their lips turned up into knowing smiles when they saw their mistress gazing at herself in the mirror, hands hovering tentatively over her womb.

Éowyn waited until the door clicked shut before allowing her joy to swell and burst forth, lighting her face with a radiant glory. She closed her eyes and tried to sense if she felt any different. Following her senses down her spine she tried to feel the new life growing within her. She was so absorbed that she almost didn't hear the muffled cough from behind.

Startled, she spun around to see Faramir shrug the fur from his shoulders, letting it fall to the bed.

"I…" she swallowed, trying to determine if this was the best time to tell him. The words fluttered in her throat, trying to find a path around her held breath to pass out her mouth. She struggled to hold them back until the moment was perfect.

"I am sorry if I startled you," he murmured, smothering another cough in his wrist. "They told me you were unwell." The corners of his eyes were tight, worried. "We cannot have you fall ill just as I am nearly well," he attempted to smile, but his eyes did not change.

She could not help but return a smile, bright as a sunrise over her ivory cheeks and putting his poor imitation to shame. Looking into his eyes, she allowed a vision of him walking across the green hills of Ithilien, a small hand clinging to his, before she managed, "I am well," trying to swallow the tears of joy that threatened to swell and cloud her vision.

"My lady?" he asked, seeing her struggle yet not correctly ascertaining the meaning.

"Truly, Faramir," she breathed, pushing the words down to a more manageable level. "I am very well." Stepping to him, she placed a cool hand to his still-too-warm cheek. The king had warned her that it would take time for him to be rid of the low fever and slight cough. But by the time their child arrived, he should be fully healed and ready for the demands the little one would bring.

"What is it?" he pressed, taking her hands in his, not willing to be swayed. "Heva told me I must go to you at once. What did she mean?"

"I… I asked her to send you to me so that we could prepare for dinner," she replied, pulling her hands from his grip and beginning to unlace his jerkin. It was not a lie – she had intended to call him to wash the ink from his hands and change the sand-dusted clothes before unveiling her culinary temptations. "I have a surprise for you," she teased, thinking now that the 'surprise' had increased ten-fold.

"A surprise?" he asked, lowering his gaze as if trying to hide the small hint of child-like hope floating in the back of his tone. This was one of the things she always loved about him: how something so small could bring a light to his face, and yet he tried so hard to hide it. _How many disappointments did he have in his childhood? _she wondered. _How often did he have to shut away the child within to be the man he struggled to become? _Not for the first time, she cursed the pitiless man who had somehow managed to raise such a fine and noble son. _And yet he will make such a wonderful father,_ she thought, and before she could stop herself, the radiant smile crept back to her face.

"Éowyn." he said, pinning her with his storm-cloud eyes. Now his tone was as her lord, correctly guessing that there was more that she was not telling.

She met his gaze as a daughter of the kings of Rohan. "After dinner," she replied, her tone brooking no argument.

They both washed and changed, heading arm in arm into the dining hall, the aroma of roasted meats and succulent fruits meeting them before they even reached the large carved doors. Seated side by side instead of across the table as they would when receiving guests, they fed each other with their fingers, talking and laughing as their cheeks reddened from the cups of wine and their eyes grew soft drinking in each other's gaze. By the end, they disappeared to their chamber, rediscovering their passion for each other as Aragorn's herbs helped bring satisfaction to them both.

Hours later, as the fire burned low, Éowyn lay with her head on Faramir's chest, his long fingers twining in her corn silk hair. She listened to the beat of his heart, the air whistling softly in his healing chest. They were warm, fed, sated, enjoying the feel of each other's skin, the nearness of each other's being.

In the deepening dark, her secret crept forth in a hushed, eager whisper, followed by first incredulous inquiry, and then by the most ardent embraces, hushed laughter, and passionate kissing. Though Éowyn admitted that most of the servants knew, she didn't want shrieking and noise to bring the household into this private moment.

When the initial excitement had spent itself, and only warm adoration and shy wonder remained, Faramir reached for the tunic that had been carelessly shed earlier in the evening, and pulled out a small piece of parchment.

Éowyn's eyebrow quirked, but she did not speak. Faramir's eyes beheld her, the dim glow from the dying embers reflected in her fair skin, shining as if gold. Silently, he handed her the parchment, and her eyes took one last glance into his before scanning the lines, written in his fine, practiced hand:

"_Darkness clouds the dawn. And I know of only one truth: _

_She stands with me now, caretaker of my soul. _

_A love, bright and dark as a sun-dappled sea_

_Rises to break on the shore of my heart._

_The path was stony, marked with scars, _

_But they fade as the sun rises in her eyes…"_

Tears fell, but she heeded them not, as his hand gently drew her face to his. And as their lips sealed, they banished all thoughts of sickness and death, turning instead toward the promise of new life, and the brightness of the breaking dawn.

_-Finis-_

_XXXX_

_p.s. I didn't write the poem. I'm not sure who did, but it's not mine. (It's perfect, though, isn't it??)_

_Thanks for reading!_


End file.
